ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 


'You  must  steal  in  and  not  wake  anybody" 

(Page  270) 


THE 
BUTTERFLY    HOUSE 


BY 
MAEY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

AUTHOR   OF 

"A  Humble  Romance,"   "A  New  England  Nun," 
"The  Winning  Lady,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
PAUL     JULIEN    MEYLAN 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1911-1912,  BY 

The  Crowell  Publishing  Company 

(as  THE  POOR  LADY) 

COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

Published,  February,  1912 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

You  must  steal  in  and  not  wake 
anybody Frontispiece 

Facing  page 

He  was  doomed  by  his  own  lack  of 
thought  to  sit  through  an  espec 
ially  long  session 34 

I  almost  wish  you  had  not  found 
it 118 

They  leaned  together  over  the  yel 
low  cat  and  kissed  each  other     .  240 


393797 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 


CHAPTER  I 

FAIRBBIDGE,  the  little  New  Jersey  village,  or 
rather  city  (for  it  had  won  municipal  govern 
ment  some  years  before,  in  spite  of  the  protest 
of  far-seeing  citizens  who  descried  in  the  dis 
tance  bonded  debts  out  of  proportion  to  the 
tiny  shoulders  of  the  place),  was  a  misnomer. 
Often  a  person,  being  in  Fairbridge  for  the  first 
time,  and  being  driven  by  way  of  entertainment 
about  the  rural  streets,  would  inquire,  "Why 
Fairbridge  1" 

Bridges  there  were  none,  except  those  over 
which  the  trains  thundered  to  and  from  New 
York,  and  the  adjective,  except  to  old  inhabi 
tants  who  had  a  curious  fierce  loyalty  for  the 
place,  did  not  seemingly  apply.  Fairbridge 
could  hardly,  by  an  unbiassed  person  who  did 
not  dwell  in  the  little  village  and  view  its  fea 
tures  through  the  rosy  glamour  of  home  life, 
be  called  "fair."  There  were  a  few  pretty 
streets,  with  well-kept  sidewalks,  and  ambi 
tious,  although  small  houses,  and  there  were 


.&  i  Ivl  I  :THE  •  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

many  lovely  bits  of  views  to  be  obtained,  espe 
cially  in  the  green  flush  of  spring,  and  the  red 
glow  of  autumn  over  the  softly  swelling  New 
Jersey  landscape  with  its  warm  red  soil  to  the 
distant  rise  of  low  blue  hills ;  but  it  was  not  fair 
enough  in  a  general  way  to  justify  its  name. 
Yet  Fairbridge  it  was,  without  bridge,  or  nat 
ural  beauty,  and  no  mortal  knew  why.  The 
origin  of  the  name  was  lost  in  the  petty  mist  of 
a  petty  past. 

Fairbridge  was  tragically  petty,  inasmuch  as 
it  saw  itself  great.  In  Fairbridge  narrowness 
reigned,  nay,  tyrannised,  and  was  not  recog 
nised  as  such.  There  was  something  fairly  un 
canny  about  Fairbridge 's  influence  upon  peo 
ple  after  they  had  lived  there  even  a  few  years. 
The  influence  held  good,  too,  in  the  cases  of 
men  who  daily  went  to  business  or  professions 
in  New  York.  Even  Wall  Street  was  no  sine 
cure.  Back  they  would  come  at  night,  and  the 
terrible,  narrow  maelstrom  of  pettiness  sucked 
them  in.  All  outside  interest  was  as  naught. 
International  affairs  seemed  insignificant  when 
once  one  was  really  in  Fairbridge. 

Fairbridge,    although   rampant   when   local 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  3 

politics  were  concerned,  had  no  regard  what 
ever  for  those  of  the  nation  at  large,  except  as 
they  involved  Fairbridge.  Fairbridge,  to  its 
own  understanding,  was  a  nucleus,  an  ultima 
tum.  It  was  an  example  of  the  triumph  of  the 
infinitesimal.  It  saw  itself  through  a  micro 
scope  and  loomed  up  gigantic.  Fairbridge  was 
like  an  insect,  born  with  the  conviction  that  it 
was  an  elephant.  There  was  at  once  something 
ludicrous,  and  magnificent,  and  terrible  about 
it.  It  had  the  impressiveness  of  the  abnormal 
and  prehistoric.  In  one  sense,  it  was  prehis 
toric.  It  was  as  a  giant  survivor  of  a  degen 
erate  species. 

Withal,  it  was  puzzling.  People  if  pinned 
down  could  not  say  why,  in  Fairbridge,  the  lit 
tle  was  so  monstrous,  whether  it  depended 
upon  local  conditions,  upon  the  general  popula 
tion,  or  upon  a  few  who  had  an  undue  estima 
tion  of  themselves  and  all  connected  with  them. 
Was  Fairbridge  great  because  of  its  inhabi 
tants,  or  were  the  inhabitants  great  because  of 
Fairbridge?  Who  could  say?  And  why  was 
Fairbridge  so  important  that  its  very  smallness 
overwhelmed  that  which,  by  the  nature  of 


4  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

things,  seemed  overwhelming?  Nobody  knew, 
or  rather,  so  tremendous  was  the  power  of  the 
small  in  the  village,  that  nobody  inquired. 

It  is  entirely  possible  that  had  there  been 
any  delicate  gauge  of  mentality,  the  actual 
swelling  of  the  individual  in  his  own  estimation 
as  he  neared  Fairbridge  after  a  few  hours'  ab 
sence,  might  have  been  apparent.  Take  a 
broker  on  Wall  Street,  for  instance,  or  a  lawyer 
who  had  threaded  his  painful  way  to  the  dim 
light  of  understanding  through  the  intricate 
mazes  of  the  law  all  day,  as  his  train  neared 
his  loved  village.  From  an  atom  that  went  to 
make  up  the  motive  power  of  a  great  metrop 
olis,  he  himself  became  an  entirety.  He  was 
It  with  a  capital  letter.  No  wonder  that  under 
the  circumstances  Fairbridge  had  charms  that 
allured,  that  people  chose  it  for  suburban  resi 
dences,  that  the  small,  ornate,  new  houses  with 
their  perky  little  towers  and  aesthetic  diamond- 
paned  windows,  multiplied. 

Fairbridge  was  in  reality  very  artistically 
planned  as  to  the  sites  of  its  houses.  Instead 
of  the  regulation  Main  Street  of  the  country 
village,  with  its  centre  given  up  to  shops  and 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  5 

post-office,  side  streets  wound  here  and  there, 
and  houses  were  placed  with  a  view  to  effect. 

The  Main  Street  of  Fairbridge  was  as 
naught  from  a  social  point  of  view.  Nohody 
of  any  social  importance  lived  there.  Even 
the  physicians  had  their  residences  and  offices 
in  a  more  aristocratic  locality.  Upon  the 
Main  Street  proper,  that  which  formed  the 
centre  of  the  village,  there  were  only  shops  and 
a  schoolhouse  and  one  or  two  mean  public 
buildings.  For  a  village  of  the  self-impor 
tance  of  Fairbridge,  the  public  buildings  were 
very  few  and  very  mean.  There  was  no  city 
hall  worthy  of  the  name  of  this  little  city  which 
held  its  head  so  high.  The  City  Hall,  so  desig 
nated  by  ornate  gilt  letters  upon  the  glass 
panel  of  a  very  small  door,  occupied  part  of 
the  building  in  which  was  the  post-office.  It 
was  a  tiny  building,  two  stories  high.  On  the 
second  floor  was  the  millinery  shop  of  Mrs. 
Creevy,  and  behind  it  the  two  rooms  in  which 
she  kept  house  with  her  daughter  Jessy. 

On  the  lower  floor  was  the  post-office  on  the 
right,  filthy  with  the  foot  tracks  of  the  Fair- 
bridge  children  who  crowded  it  in  a  noisy  rab- 


6  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

ble  twice  a  day,  and  perpetually  red-stained 
with  the  shale  of  New  Jersey,  brought  in  upon 
the  boots  of  New  Jersey  farmers,  who  always 
bore  about  with  them  a  goodly  portion  of  their 
native  soil.  On  the  left,  was  the  City  Hall. 
This  was  vacant  except  upon  the  first  Monday 
of  every  month,  when  the  janitor  of  the  Dutch 
Eeformed  Church,  who  eked  out  a  scanty  salary 
with  divers  other  tasks,  got  himself  to  work, 
and  slopped  pails  of  water  over  the  floor,  then 
swept,  and  built  a  fire,  if  in  winter. 

Upon  the  evenings  of  these  first  Mondays  the 
Mayor  and  city  officials  met  and  made  great 
talk  over  small  matters,  and  with  the  labouring 
of  a  mountain,  brought  forth  mice.  The  City 
Hall  was  closed  upon  other  occasions,  unless 
the  village  talent  gave  a  play  for  some  local 
benefit.  Fairbridge  was  intensely  dramatic, 
and  it  was  popularly  considered  that  great, 
natural,  histrionic  gifts  were  squandered  upon 
the  Fairbridge  audiences,  appreciative  though 
they  were.  Outside  talent  was  never  in  evi 
dence  in  Fairbridge.  No  theatrical  company 
Lad  ever  essayed  to  rent  that  City  Hall.  Peo 
ple  in  Fairbridge  put  that  somewhat  humili- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  7 

ating  fact  from  their  minds.  Nothing  would 
have  induced  a  loyal  citizen  to  admit  that  Fair- 
bridge  was  too  small  game  for  such  purposes. 
There  was  a  tiny  theatre  in  the  neighbouring 
city  of  Administer,  which  had  really  some 
claims  to  being  called  a  city,  from  tradition 
and  usage,  aside  from  size.  Axminister  was 
an  ancient  Dutch  city,  horribly  uncomfortable, 
but  exceedingly  picturesque.  Fairbridge  looked 
down  upon  it,  and  seldom  patronised  the  shows 
(they  never  said  " plays")  staged  in  its  min 
iature  theatre.  When  they  did  not  resort  to 
their  own  City  Hall  for  entertainment  by  local 
talent,  they  arrayed  themselves  in  their  best 
and  patronised  New  York  itself. 

New  York  did  not  know  that  it  was  patron 
ised,  but  Fairbridge  knew.  When  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  George  B.  Slade  boarded  the  seven 
o'clock  train,  Mrs.  Slade,  tall,  and  majestically 
handsome,  arrayed  most  elegantly,  and! 
crowned  with  a  white  hat  (Mrs.  Slade  always 
affected  white  hats  with  long  drooping  plumes 
upon  such  occasions),  and  George  B.,  natty  in 
his  light  top  coat,  standing  well  back  upon  the 
heels  of  his  shiny  shoes,  with  the  air  of  the 


8  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

wealthy  and  well-assured,  holding  a  beltect 
cigar  in  the  tips  of  his  grey-gloved  fingers, 
New  York  was  most  distinctly  patronised,  al 
though  without  knowing  it. 

It  was  also  patronised,  and  to  a  greater  ex 
tent,  by  little  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes,  very  little  in 
deed,  so  little  as  to  be  almost  symbolic  of  Fair- 
bridge  itself,  but  elegant  in  every  detail,  so  ele 
gant  as  to  arrest  the  eye  of  everybody  as  she 
entered  the  train,  holding  up  the  tail  of  her 
black  lace  gown.  Mrs.  Edes  doted  on  black 
lage.  Her  small,  fair  face  peered  with  a  curi 
ous  calm  alertness  from  under  the  black 
plumes  of  her  great  picture  hat,  perched  side- 
wise  upon  a  carefully  waved  pale  gold  pompa 
dour,  which  was  perfection  and  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  best  hairdresser  or  the  best  French 
maid  in  New  York,  but  which  was  achieved 
solely  by  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes'  own  native  wit 
and  skilful  fingers. 

Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes,  although  small,  was  mas 
terly  in  everything,  from  waving  a  pompadour 
to  conducting  theatricals.  She  herself  was  the 
star  dramatic  performer  of  Fairbridge. 
ffhere  was  a  strong  feeling  in  Fairbridge  that 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  9 

in  reality  she  might,  if  she  chose,  rival  Bern- 
hardt.  Mrs.  Emerston  Strong,  who  had  been 
abroad  and  had  seen  Bernhardt  on  her  native 
soil,  had  often  said  that  Mrs.  Edes  reminded 
her  of  the  great  French  actress,  although  she 
was  much  handsomer,  and  so  moral!  Mrs. 
Wilbur  Edes  was  masterly  in  morals,  as  in 
everything  else.  She  was  much  admired  by  the 
opposite  sex,  but  she  was  a  model  wife  and 
mother. 
Mr.  Wilbur  Edes  was  an  a'dmired  accessory 

of  his  wife.    He  was  so  very  tall  and  slender 

4 

as  to  suggest  forcible  elongation.  He  carried 
his  head  with  a  deprecatory,  sidewise  air  as  if 
in  accordance  with  his  wife's  picture  hat,  and 
yet  Mr.  Wilbur  Edes,  out  of  Fairbridge  and  in 
his  law  office  on  Broadway,  was  a  man  among 
men.  He  was  an  exception  to  the  personal 
esteem  which  usually  expanded  a  male  citizen 
of  Fairbridge,  but  he  was  the  one  and  only  hus 
band  of  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes,  and  there  was  not 
room  at  such  an  apex  as  she  occupied  for  more 
than  one.  Tall  as  Wilbur  Edes  was,  he  was 
overshadowed  by  that  immaculate  blond 
pompadour  and  that  plumed  picture  hat.  He 


10  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

was  a  prime  favourite  in  Fairbridge  society; 
he  was  liked  and  admired,  but  his  radiance  was 
reflected,  and  he  was  satisfied  that  it  should  be 
so.  He  adored  his  wife.  The  shadow  of  her 
black  picture  hat  was  his  place  of  perfect  con 
tent.  He  watched  the  admiring  glances  of 
other  men  at  his  wonderful  possession  with  a 
triumph  and  pride  which  made  him  really 
rather  a  noble  sort.  He  was  also  so  fond  and 
proud  of  his  little  twin  daughters,  Maida  and 
Adelaide,  that  the  fondness  and  pride  fairly 
illuminated  his  inner  self.  Wilbur  Edes  was  a 
clever  lawyer,  but  love  made  him  something 
bigger.  It  caused  him  to  immolate  self,  which 
is  spiritually  enlarging  self. 

In  one  respect  Wilbur  Edes  was  the  biggest 
man  in  Fairbridge;  in  another,  Doctor  Sturte- 
vant  was.  Doctor  Sturtevant  depended  upon 
no  other  person  for  his  glory.  He  shone  as  a 
fixed  star,  with  his  own  lustre.  He  was  es 
teemed  a  very  great  physician  indeed,  and  it 
was  considered  that  Mrs.  Sturtevant,  who  was 
good,  and  honest,  and  portly  with  a  tight,  mid 
dle-aged  portliness,  hardly  lived  up  to  her  hus- 
'band.  It  was  admitted  that  she  tried,  poor 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  11 

soul,  but  her  limitations  were  held  to  be  impos 
sible,  even  by  her  faithful  straining  following 
of  love. 

When  the  splendid,  florid  Doctor,  with  his 
majestically  curving  expanse  of  waistcoat  and 
his  inscrutable  face,  whirred  through  the 
streets  of  Fairbridge  in  his  motor  car,  with 
that  meek  bulk  of  womanhood  beside  him, 
many  said  quite  openly  how  unfortunate  it  was 
that  Doctor  Sturtevant  had  married,  when  so 
young,  a  woman  so  manifestly  his  inferior. 
They  never  failed  to  confer  that  faint  praise, 
which  is  worse  than  none  at  all,  upon  the  poor 
soul. 

"  She  is  a  good  woman,"  they  said.  "She 
means  well,  and  she  is  a  good  housekeeper, 
but  she  is  no  companion  for  a  man  like  that." 

Poor  Mrs.  Sturtevant  was  aware  of  her 
status  in  Fairbridge,  and  she  was  not  without 
a  steady,  plodding  ambition  of  her  own.  That 
utterly  commonplace,  middle-aged  face  had 
some  lines  of  strength.  Mrs.  Sturtevant  was 
a  member  of  the  women's  club  of  Fairbridge, 
which  was  poetically  and  cleverly  called  the 
Zenith  Club. 


12          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

She  wrote,  whenever  it  was  her  turn  to  do 
so,  papers  upon  every  imaginable  subject. 
She  balked  at  nothing  whatever.  She  ranged 
from  household  discussions  to  the  Orient. 
Then  she  stood  up  in  the  midst  of  the  women, 
sunk  her  double  chin  in  her  lace  collar,  and 
read  her  paper  in  a  voice  like  the  whisper  of  a 
blade  of  grass.  Doctor  Sturtevant  had  a  very- 
low  voice.  His  wife  had  naturally  a  strident 
one,  but  she  essayed  to  follow  him  in  the  mat 
ter  of  voice,  as  in  all  other  things.  The  poor 
hen  bird  tried  to  voice  her  thoughts  like  her 
mate,  and  the  result  was  a  strange  and  weird 
note.  However,  Mrs.  Sturtevant  herself  was 
not  aware  of  the  result.  When  she  sat  down 
after  finishing  her  papers  her  face  was  always 
becomingly  flushed  with  pleasure. 

Nothing,  not  even  pleasure,  was  becoming  to 
Mrs.  Sturtevant.  Life  itself  was  unbecoming 
to  her,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  nobody  knew 
it,  and  everybody  said  it  was  due  to  Mrs.  Stur 
tevant  's  lack  of  taste,  and  then  they  pitied  the 
great  doctor  anew.  It  was  very  fortunate  that 
it  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Sturtevant  to  pity 
the  doctor  on  her  account,  for  she  was  so  fond 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  13 

of  him,  poor  soul,  that  it  might  have  led  to  a 
tragedy. 

The  Zenith  Club  of  Fairbridge  always  met 
on  Friday  afternoons.  It  was  a  cherished  aim 
of  the  Club  to  uproot  foolish  superstitions, 
hence  Friday.  It  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
risky  to  the  ordinary  person  for  a  woman  to 
attend  a  meeting  of  the  Zenith  Club  on  a  Fri 
day,  in  preference  to  any  other  day  lin  the 
week ;  but  many  a  member  had  a  covert  feeling 
that  she  was  somewhat  heroic,  especially  if  the 
meeting  was  held  at  the  home  of  some  distant 
member  on  an  icy  day  in  winter,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  make  use  of  a  livery  carriage. 

There  were  in  Fairbridge  three  keepers  of 
livery  stables,  and  curiously  enough,  no  rivalry 
between  them.  All  three  were  natives  of  the 
soil,  and  somewhat  sluggish  in  nature,  like  its 
sticky  red  shale.  They  did  not  move  with 
much  enthusiasm,  neither  were  they  to  be  easily 
removed.  When  the  New  York  trains  came  in, 
they,  with  their  equally  indifferent  drivers,  sat 
comfortably  ensconced  in  their  carriages,  and 
never  waylaid  the  possible  passengers  alight 
ing  from  the  train.  Sometimes  they  did  not 


14          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

even  open  the  carriage  doors,  but  they,  how 
ever,  saw  to  it  that  they  were  closed  when  once 
the  passenger  was  within,  and  that  was  some 
thing.  All  three  drove  indifferent  horses, 
somewhat  uncertain  as  to  footing.  When  a 
woman  sat  behind  these  weak-kneed,  badly 
shod  steeds  and  realised  that  Stumps,  or  Fitz 
gerald,  or  Witless  was  driving  with  an  utter 
indifference  to  the  tightening  of  lines  at  dan 
gerous  places,  and  also  realised  that  it  was 
Friday,  some  strength  of  character  was  doubt 
less  required. 

One  Friday  in  January,  two  young  women, 
one  married,  one  single,  one  very  pretty,  and 
both  well-dressed  (most  of  the  women  who  be 
longed  to  the  Fairbridge  social  set  dressed 
well)  were  being  driven  by  Jim  Fitzgerald  a 
distance  of  a  mile  or  more,  up  a  long  hill.  The 
slope  was  gentle  and  languid,  like  nearly  every 
slope  in  that  part  of  the  state,  but  that  day  it 
was  menacing  with  ice.  It  was  one  smooth 
glaze  over  the  macadam.  Jim  Fitzgerald,  a 
descendant  of  a  fine  old  family  whose  type  had 
degenerated,  sat  hunched  upon  the  driver's 
seat,  his  loose  jaw  hanging,  his  eyes  absent, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  15 

his  mouth  open,  chewing  with  slow  enjoyment 
his  beloved  quid,  while  the  reins  lay  slackly  on 
the  rusty  black  robe  tucked  over  his  knees. 
Even  a  corner  of  that  dragged  dangerously 
near  the  right  wheels  of  the  coupe.  Jim  had 
not  sufficient  energy  to  tuck  it  in  firmly,  al 
though  the  wind  was  sharp  from  the  northwest. 

Alice  Mendon  paid  no  attention  to  it,  but  her 
companion,  Daisy  Shaw,  otherwise  Mrs.  Sum- 
ner  Shaw,  who  was  of  the  tense,  nervous  type, 
had  remarked  it  uneasily  when  they  first 
started.  She  had  rapped  vigorously  upon  the 
front  window,  and  a  misty,  rather  beautiful 
blue  eye  had  rolled  interrogatively  over  Jim's 
shoulder. 

1  'Your  robe  is  dragging,"  shrieked  in  shrill 
staccato  Daisy  Shaw ;  and  there  had  been  a  dull 
nod  of  the  head,  a  feeble  pull  at  the  dragging 
robe,  then  it  had  dragged  again. 

"Oh,  don't  mind,  dear,"  said  Alice  Mendon. 
"It  is  his  own  lookout  if  he  loses  the  robe." 

"It  isn't  that,"  responded  Daisy  queru 
lously.  "It  isn't  that.  I  don't  care,  since  he 
is  so  careless,  if  he  does  lose  it,  but  I  must  say 
that  I  don't  think  it  is  safe.  Suppose  it  got 


16          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

caught  in  the  wheel,  and  I  know  this  horse 
stumbles." 

" Don't  worry,  dear,"  said  Alice  Mendon. 
" Fitzgerald's  robe  always  drags,  and  nothing 
ever  happens." 

Alice  Mendon  was  a  young  woman,  not  a 
young  girl  (she  had  left  young  girlhood  behind 
several  years  since)  and  she  was  distinctly 
beautiful  after  a  fashion  that  is  not  easily  af 
fected  by  the  passing  years.  She  had  had 
rather  an  eventful  life,  but  not  an  event,  pleas 
ant  or  otherwise,  had  left  its  mark  upon  the 
smooth  oval  of  her  face.  There  was  not  a  side 
nor  retrospective  glance  to  disturb  the  seren 
ity  of  her  large  blue  eyes.  Although  her  eyes 
were  blue,  her  hair  was  almost  chestnut  black, 
except  in  certain  lights,  when  it  gave  out 
gleams  as  of  dark  gold.  Her  features  were 
full,  her  figure  large,  but  not  too  large.  She 
wore  a  dark  red  tailored  gown ;  and  sumptuous 
sable  furs  shaded  with  dusky  softness  and  shot, 
in  the  sun,  with  prismatic  gleams,  set  off  her 
handsome,  not  exactly  smiling,  but  serenely 
beaming  face.  Two  great  black  ostrich  plumea 
and  one  red  one  curled  down  toward  the  soft 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  17 

spikes  of  the  fur.  Between,  the  two  great  blue 
eyes,  the  soft  oval  of  the  cheeks,  and  the  pleas 
ant  red  fulness  of  the  lips  appeared. 

Poor  Daisy  Shaw,  who  was  poor  in  two 
senses,  strength  of  nerve  and  money,  looked 
blue  and  cold  in  her  little  black  suit,  and  her 
pale  blue  liberty  scarf  was  horribly  inadequate 
and  unbecoming.  Daisy  was  really  painful  to 
see  as  she  gazed  out  apprehensively  at  the 
dragging  robe,  and  the  glistening  slant  over 
which  they  were  moving.  Alice  regarded  her 
not  so  much  with  pity  as  with  a  calm,  shelter 
ing  sense  of  superiority  and  strength.  She 
pulled  the  inner  robe  of  the  coupe  up  and 
tucked  it  firmly  around  Daisy's  thin  knees. 

"You  look  half  frozen,"  said  Alice. 

"I  don't  mind  being  frozen,  but  I  do  mind 
being  scared, "  replied  Daisy  sharply.  She  re 
moved  the  robe  with  a  twitch. 

"If  that  old  horse  stumbles  and  goes  down 
and  kicks,  I  want  to  be  able  to  get  out  without 
being  all  tangled  up  in  a  robe  and  dragged, " 
said  she. 

"While  the  horse  is  kicking  and  down  I  don't 
see  how  he  can  drag  you  very  far,"  said  Alice 


18          THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

with  a  slight  laugh.  Then  the  horse  stumbled. 
Daisy  Shaw  knocked  quickly  on  the  front  win 
dow  with  her  little,  nervous  hand  in  its  tight, 
white  kid  glove. 

"Do  please  hold  your  reins  tighter,"  she 
called.  Again  the  misty  blue  eyes  rolled  about, 
the  head  nodded,  the  rotary  jaws  were  seen, 
the  robe  dragged,  the  reins  lay  loosely. 

"That  wasn't  a  stumble  worth  mentioning, ' ' 
said  Alice  Mendon. 

"I  wish  he  would  stop  chewing  and  drive," 
said  poor  Daisy  Shaw  vehemently.  "I  wish 
we  had  a  liveryman  as  good  as  that  Dougherty 
in  Axminister.  I  was  making  calls  there  the 
other  day,  and  it  was  as  slippery  as  it  is  now, 
and  he  held  the  reins  up  tight  every  minute. 
I  felt  safe  with  him." 

"I  don't  think  anything  will  happen." 

"It  does  seem  to  me  if  he  doesn't  stop  chew 
ing,  and  drive,  I  shall  fly ! "  said  Daisy. 

Alice  regarded  her  with  a  little  wonder. 
Such  anxiety  concerning  personal  safety  rather 
puzzled  her.  "My  horses  ran  away  the  other 
day,  and  Dick  went  down  flat  and  barked  his 
knees;  that's  why  I  have  Fitzgerald  to-day," 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  19 

said  she.  "I  was  not  hurt.  Nobody  was  hurt 
except  the  horse.  I  was  very  sorry  about  the 
horse. " 

"I  wish  I  had  an  automobile/'  said  Daisy. 
"You  never  know  what  a  horse  will  do  next." 

Alice  laughed  again  slightly.  "There  is  a 
little  doubt  sometimes  as  to  what  an  automobile 
will  do  next,"  she  remarked. 

"Well,  it  is  your  own  brain  that  controls  it, 
if  you  can  run  it  yourself,  as  you  do." 

"I  am  not  so  sure.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
the  automobile  hasn't  an  uncanny  sort  of  brain 
itself.  Sometimes  I  wonder  how  far  men  can 
go  with  the  invention  of  machinery  without 
putting  more  of  themselves  into  it  than  they 
bargain  for,"  said  Alice.  Her  smooth  face  did 
not  contract  in  the  least,  but  was  brooding  with 
speculation  and  thought. 

Then  the  horse  stumbled  again,  and  Daisy 
screamed,  and  again  tapped  the  window. 

"He  won't  go  way  down,"  said  Alice.  "I 
think  he  is  too  stiff.  Don't  worry." 

"There  is  no  stumbling  to  worry  about  with 
an  automobile,"  said  Daisy. 

"You  couldn't  use  one  on  this  hill  without 


20  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

more  risk  than  you  take  with  a  stumbling 
horse,"  replied  Alice.  Just  then  a  carriage 
drawn  by  two  fine  bays  passed  them,  and  there 
was  an  interchange  of  nods. 

''There  is  Mrs.  Sturtevant,"  said  Alice. 
"She  isn't  using  the  automobile  to-day." 

"Doctor  Sturtevant  has  had  that  coachman 
thirty  years,  and  he  doesn't  chew,  he  drives," 
said  Daisy. 

Then  they  drew  up  before  the  house  whicK 
was  their  destination,  Mrs.  George  B.  Slade's. 
The  house  was  very  small,  but  perkily  pre 
tentious,  and  they  drove  under  the  porte-cochere 
to  alight. 

"I  heard  Mr.  Slade  had  been  making  a  great 
deal  of  money  in  cotton  lately,"  Daisy  whis 
pered,  as  the  carriage  stopped  behind  Mrs. 
Sturtevant  Js.  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Slade  went  to 
the  opera  last  week.  I  heard  they  had  taken  a 
box  for  the  season,  and  Mrs.  Slade  had  a  new 
black  velvet  gown  and  a  pearl  necklace.  I 
think  she  is  almost  too  old  to  wear  low  neck." 

"She  is  not  so  very  old,"  replied  Alice.  "It 
is  only  her  white  hair  that  makes  her  seem  so." 
Then  she  extended  a  rather  large  but  well 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  21 

gloved  hand  and  opened  the  coupe  door,  while 
Jim  Fitzgerald  sat  and  chewed  and  waited,  and 
the  two  young  women  got  out.  Daisy  had 
some  trouble  in  holding  up  her  long  skirts. 
She  tugged  at  them  with  nervous  energy,  and 
told  Alice  of  the  twenty-five  cents  which  Fitz 
gerald  would  ask  for  the  return  trip.  She  had 
wished  to  arrive  at  the  club  in  fine  feather,  but 
had  counted  on  walking  home  in  the  dusk,  with 
her  best  skirts  high-kilted,  and  saving  an  hon 
est  penny. 

"Nonsense;  of  course  you  will  go  with  me," 
said  Alice  in  the  calmly  imperious  way  she  had, 
and  the  two  mounted  the  steps.  They  had 
scarcely  reached  the  door  before  Mrs.  Slade's 
maid,  Lottie,  appeared  in  her  immaculate  width 
of  apron,  with  carefully-pulled-out  bows  and 
little  white  lace  top-knot.  "Upstairs,  front 
room/'  she  murmured,  and  the  two  went  up  the 
polished  stairs.  There  was  a  landing  halfway, 
with  a  diamond  paned  window  and  one  rubber 
plant  and  two  palms,  all  very  glossy,  and  all 
three  in  nice  green  jardinieres  which  exactly 
matched  the  paper  on  the  walls  of  the  hall. 
Mrs.  George  B.  Slade  had  a  mania  for  exactly 


22  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

matching  things.  Some  of  her  friends  said 
among  themselves  that  she  carried  it  almost 
too  far. 

The  front  room,  the  guest  room,  into  which 
Alice  Mendon  and  Daisy  Shaw  passed,  was 
done  in  yellow  and  white,  and  one  felt  almost 
sinful  in  disturbing  the  harmony  by  any  other 
tint.  The  walls  were  yellow,  with  a  frieze  of 
garlands  of  yellow  roses ;  the  ceiling  was  tinted 
yellow,  the  tiles  on  the  shining  little  hearth 
were  yellow,  every  ornament  upon  the  mantel 
shelf  was  yellow,  down  to  a  china  shepherdess 
who  wore  a  yellow  china  gown  and  carried  a 
basket  filled  with  yellow  flowers,  and  bore  a  yel 
low  crook.  The  bedstead  was  brass,  and 
there  was  a  counterpane  of  white  lace  over  yel 
low,  the  muslin  curtains  were  tied  back  with 
great  bows  of  yellow  ribbon.  Even  the  pic 
tures  represented  yellow  flowers  or  maidens 
dressed  in  yellow.  The  rugs  were  yellow,  the 
furniture  upholstered  in  yellow,  and  all  of  ex 
actly  the  same  shade. 

There  were  a  number  of  ladies  in  this  yellow 
room,  prinking  themselves  before  going  down 
stairs.  They  all  lived  in  Fairbridge;  they  all 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  23 

knew  each  other;  but  they  greeted  one  another 
with  the  most  elegant  formality.  Alice  as 
sisted  Daisy  Shaw  to  remove  her  coat  and  lib 
erty  scarf,  then  she  shook  herself  free  of  her 
own  wraps,  rather  than  removed  them.  She 
did  not  even  glance  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
Her  reason  for  so  doing  was  partly  confidence 
in  her  own  appearance,  partly  distrust  of  the 
glass.  She  had  viewed  herself  carefully  in  her 
own  looking-glass  before  she  left  home.  She 
believed  in  what  she  had  seen  there,  but  she  did 
not  care  to  disturb  that  belief,  and  she  saw  that 
Mrs.  Slade's  mirror  over  her  white  and  yellow 
draped  dressing  table  stood  in  a  cross-light. 
While  all  admitted  Alice  Mendon's  beauty,  no 
body  had  ever  suspected  her  of  vanity ;  yet  van 
ity  she  had,  in  a  degree. 

The  other  women  in  the  room  looked  at  her. 
It  was  always  a  matter  of  interest  to  Fair- 
bridge  what  she  would  wear,  and  this  was 
rather  curious,  as,  after  all,  she  had  not  many 
gowns.  There  was  a  certain  impressiveness 
about  her  mode  of  wearing  the  same  gown 
which  seemed  to  create  an  illusion.  To-day  in 
her  dark  red  gown  embroidered  with  poppies  of 


24  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

still  another  shade,  she  created  a  distinctly  new 
impression,  although  she  had  worn  the  same 
costume  often  before  at  the  club  meetings. 
She  went  downstairs  in  advance  of  the  other 
women  who  had  arrived  before,  and  were  yet 
anxiously  peering  at  themselves  in  the  cross- 
lighted  mirror,  and  being  adjusted  as  to  re 
fractory  neckwear  by  one  another. 

When  Alice  entered  Mrs.  Slade's  elegant  lit 
tle  reception-room,  which  was  done  in  a  dull 
rose  colour,  its  accessories  very  exactly  match 
ing,  even  to  Mrs.  Slade's  own  costume,  which 
was  rose  silk  under  black  lace,  she  was  led  at 
once  to  a  lady  richly  attired  in  black,  with 
gleams  of  jet,  who  was  seated  in  a  large  chair 
in  the  place  of  honour,  not  quite  in  the  bay  win- 
clow  but  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  opening. 
The  lady  quite  filled  the  chair.  She  was  very 
stout.  Her  face,  under  an  ornate  black  hat, 
was  like  a  great  rose  full  of  overlapping  curves 
of  florid  flesh.  The  wide  mouth  was  perpetu 
ally  curved  into  a  bow  of  mirth,  the  small  black 
eyes  twinkled.  She  was  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy  Sny- 
der,  who  had  come  from  New  York  to  deliver 
her  famous  lecture  upon  the  subject:  " Where 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  25 

does  a  woman  shine  with  more  lustre,  at  home 
or  abroad ?" 

The  programme  was  to  be  varied,  as  usual 
upon  such  occasions,  by  local  talent.  Leila 
MacDonald,  who  sang  contralto  in  the  church 
choir,  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Wells,  who  sang  so 
prano,  and  Mrs.  Jack  Evarts,  who  played  the  pi 
ano  very  well,  and  Miss  Sally  Anderson,  who 
had  taken  lessons  in  elocution,  all  had  their 
parts,  besides  the  president  of  the  club,  Mrs. 
Wilbur  Edes,  who  had  a  brief  address  in  readi 
ness,  and  the  secretary,  who  had  to  give  the 
club  report  for  the  year.  Mrs.  Snyder  was  to 
give  her  lecture  as  a  grand  climax,  then  there 
were  to  be  light  refreshments  and  a  reception 
following  the  usual  custom  of  the  club. 

Alice  bowed  before  Mrs.  Snyder  and  re 
treated  to  a  window  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  She  sat  beside  the  window  and  looked 
out.  Just  then  one  of  the  other  liverymen 
drove  up  with  a  carriage  full  of  ladies,  and 
they  emerged  in  a  flutter  of  veils  and  silk 
skirts.  Mrs.  Slade,  who  was  really  superb  in 
her  rose  silk  and  black  lace,  with  an  artful  frill 
of  white  lace  at  her  throat  to  match  her  great 


26  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

puff  of  white  hair,  remained  beside  Mrs.  Sny- 
der,  whose  bow  of  mirth  widened. 

"Who  is  that  magnificent  creature?"  whis 
pered  Mrs.  Snyder  with  a  gush  of  enthusiasm, 
indicating  Alice  beside  the  window. 

"She  lives  here/'  replied  Mrs.  Slade  rather 
stupidly.  She  did  not  quite  know  how  to  de 
fine  Alice. 

"Lives  here  in  this  little  place?  Not  all  the 
year?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Snyder. 

"Fairbridge  is  a  very  good  place  to  live  in 
all  the  year,"  replied  Mrs.  Slade  rather  stiffly. 
"It  is  near  New  York.  We  have  all  the  advan 
tages  of  a  great  metropolis  without  the  draw 
backs.  Fairbridge  is  a  most  charming  city, 
and  very  progressive,  yes,  very  progressive." 

Mrs.  Slade  took  it  rather  hardly  that  Mrs. 
Snyder  should  intimate  anything  prejudicial  to 
Fairbridge  and  especially  that  it  was  not  good 
enough  for  Alice  Mendon,  who  had  been  born 
there,  and  lived  there  all  her  life  except  the 
year  she  had  been  in  college.  If  anything,  she, 
Mrs.  Slade,  wondered  if  Alice  Mendon  were 
good  enough  for  Fairbridge.  What  had  she 
ever  done,  except  to  wear  handsome  costumes 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  27 

and  look  handsome  and  self-possessed?  Al 
though  she  belonged  to  the  Zenith  Club,  no 
power  on  earth  could  induce  her  to  discharge 
the  duties  connected  herewith,  except  to  pay 
her  part  of  the  expenses,  and  open  her  house 
for  a  meeting.  She  simply  would  not  write  a 
paper  upon  any  interesting  and  instructive 
topic  and  read  it  before  the  club,  and  she  was 
not  considered  gifted.  She  could  not  sing  like 
Leila  MacDonald  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Wells.  She 
could  not  play  like  Mrs.  Jack  Evarts.  She 
could  not  recite  like  Sally  Anderson. 

Mrs.  Snyder  glanced  across  at  Alice,  who 
looked  very  graceful  and  handsome,  although 
also,  to  a  discerning  eye,  a  little  sulky,  and 
bored  with  a  curious,  abstracted  boredom. 

"She  is  superb, "  whispered  Mrs.  Snyder, 
"yes,  simply  superb.  Why  does  she  live  here, 
pray?" 

"Why,  she  was  born  here,"  replied  Mrs. 
Slade,  again  stupidly.  It  was  as  if  Alice  had 
no  more  motive  power  than  a  flowering  bush. 

Mrs.  Snyder 's  bow  of  mirth  widened  into  a 
laugh.  "Well,  can't  she  get  away,  even  if  she 
was  born  here?"  said  she. 


28          THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

However,  Mrs.  George  B.  Slade 's  mind  trav 
elled  in  such  a  circle  that  she  was  difficult  to 
corner.  "Why  should  she  want  to  move?" 
said  she. 

Mrs.  Snyder  laughed  again.  "But,  granting 
she  should  want  to  move,  is  there  anything  to 
hinder ?"  she  asked.  She  wasn't  a  very  clever 
woman,  and  was  deciding  privately  to  mimic 
Mrs.  George  B.  Slade  at  some  future  occasion, 
and  so  eke  out  her  scanty  remuneration.  She 
did  not  think  ten  dollars  and  expenses  quite 
enough  for  such  a  lecture  as  hers. 

Mrs.  Slade  looked  at  her  perplexedly. 
"Why,  yes,  she  could  I  suppose/'  said  she, 
"but  why?" 

"What  has  hindered  her  before  now?" 

"Oh,  her  mother  was  a  helpless  invalid,  and 
Alice  was  the  only  child,  and  she  had  been  in 
college  just  a  year  when  her  father  died,  then 
she  came  home  and  lived  with  her  mother,  but 
her  mother  has  been  dead  two  years  now,  and 
Alice  has  plenty  of  money.  Her  father  left 
a  good  deal,  and  her  cousin  and  aunt  live  with 
her.  Oh,  yes,  she  could,  but  why  should  she 
want  to  leave  Fairbridge,  and — " 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  29 

Then  some  new  arrivals  approached,  and  the 
discussion  concerning  Alice  Mendon  ceased. 
The  ladies  came  rapidly  now.  Soon  Mrs. 
Slade's  hall,  reception-room,  and  dining-room, 
in  which  a  gaily-decked  table  was  set,  were 
thronged  with  women  whose  very  skirts  seemed 
full  of  important  anticipatory  stirs  and  rus 
tles.  Mrs.  Snyder's  curved  smile  became  set, 
her  eyes  absent.  She  was  revolving  her  lec 
ture  in  her  mind,  making  sure  that  she  could 
repeat  it  without  the  assistance  of  the  notes  in 
her  petticoat  pocket. 

Then  a  woman  rang  a  little  silver  bell,  and  a 
woman  who  sat  short  but  rose  to  unexpected 
heights  stood  up.  The  phenomenon  was  amaz 
ing,  but  all  the  Fairbridge  ladies  had  seen  Miss 
Bessy  Dicky,  the  secretary  of  the  Zenith  Club, 
rise  before,  and  no  one  observed  anything  re 
markable  about  it.  Only  Mrs.  Snyder's  mouth 
twitched  a  little,  but  she  instantly  recovered 
herself  and  fixed  her  absent  eyes  upon  Miss 
Bessy  Dicky's  long,  pale  face  as  she  began  to 
read  the  report  of  the  club  for  the  past  year. 

She  had  been  reading  several  minutes,  her 
glasses  fixed  firmly  (one  of  her  eyes  had  a  cast), 


30  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

and  her  lean,  veinous  hands  trembling  with  ex 
citement,  when  the  door  bell  rang  with  a  sharp 
peremptory  peal.  There  was  a  little  flutter 
among  the  ladies.  Such  a  thing  had  never  hap 
pened  before.  Fairbridge  ladies  were  re 
nowned  for  punctuality,  especially  at  a  meeting 
like  this,  and  in  any  case,  had  one  been  late, 
she  would  never  have  rung  the  bell.  She  would 
have  tapped  gently  on  the  door,  the  white- 
capped  maid  would  have  admitted  her,  and  she, 
knowing  she  was  late  and  hearing  the  hollow 
recitative  of  Miss  Bessy  Dicky's  voice,  would 
have  tiptoed  upstairs,  then  slipped  delicately 
down  again  and  into  a  place  near  the  door. 

But  now  it  was  different.  Lottie  opened  the 
door,  and  a  masculine  voice  was  heard.  Mrs, 
Slade  had  a  storm-porch,  so  no  one  could  look 
directly  into  the  hall. 

"Is  Mrs.  Slade  at  home?"  inquired  the  voice 
distinctly.  The  ladies  looked  at  one  another, 
and  Miss  Bessy  Dicky's  reading  was  unheard. 
They  all  knew  who  spoke.  Lottie  appeared 
with  a  crimson  face,  bearing  a  little  ostentatious 
silver  plate  with  a  card.  Mrs.  Slade  adjusted 
her  lorgnette,  looked  at  the  card,  and  appeared 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  31 

to  hesitate  for  a  second.  Then  a  look  of  calm 
determination  overspread  her  face.  She  whis 
pered  to  Lottie,  and  presently  appeared  a  young 
man  in  clerical  costume,  moving  between  the 
seated  groups  of  ladies  with  an  air  not  so  much 
of  embarrassment  as  of  weary  patience,  as  if 
he  had  expected  something  like  this  to  happen, 
and  it  had  happened. 

Mrs.  Slade  motioned  to  a  chair  near  her, 
which  Lottie  had  placed,  and  the  young  man  sat 
down. 


CHAPTER  II 

MANY  things  were  puzzling  in  Fail-bridge,  that 
is,  puzzling  to  a  person  with  a  logical  turn  of 
mind.  For  instance,  nobody  could  say  that 
Fairbridge  people  were  not  religious.  It  was 
a  church  going  community,  and  five  denomina 
tions  were  represented  in  it;  nevertheless,  the 
professional  expounders  of  its  doctrines  were 
held  in  a  sort  of  gentle  derision,  that  is,  unless 
the  expounder  happened  to  be  young  and  eli 
gible  from  a  matrimonial  point  of  view,  when 
he  gained  a  certain  fleeting  distinction.  Other 
wise  the  clergy  were  regarded  (in  very  much 
the  same  light  as  if  employed  by  a  railroad) 
as  the  conductors  of  a  spiritual  train  of  cars 
bound  for  the  Promised  Land.  They  were  ad 
mittedly  engaged  in  a  cause  worthy  of  the  high 
est  respect  and  veneration.  The  Cause  com 
manded  it,  not  they.  They  had  always  lacked 
social  prestige  in  Fairbridge,  except,  as  before 
stated,  in  the  cases  of  the  matrimonially  eli 
gible. 

89 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  33 

Dominie  von  Rosen  came  under  that  head. 
Consequently  he  was  for  the  moment,  fleeting 
as  everybody  considered  it,  in  request.  But  he 
did  not  respond  readily  to  the  social  patronage 
of  Fair-bridge.  He  was,  seemingly,  quite  ob 
livious  to  its  importance.  Karl  von  Rosen  was 
bored  to  the  verge  of  physical  illness  by  Fair- 
bridge  functions.  Even  a  church  affair  found 
him  wearily  to  the  front.  Therefore  his  pres 
ence  at  the  Zenith  Club  was  unprecedented  and 
confounding.  He  had  often  been  asked  to  at 
tend  its  special  meetings  but  had  never  ac 
cepted.  Now,  however,  here  he  was,  caught 
neatly  in  the  trap  of  his  own  carelessness. 
Karl  von  Rosen  should  have  reflected  that  the 
Zenith  Club  was  one  of  the  institutions  of  Fair- 
bridge,  and  met  upon  a  Friday,  and  that  Mrs. 
George  B.  Slade's  house  was  an  exceedingly 
likely  rendezvous,  but  he  was  singularly  absent- 
minded  as  to  what  was  near,  and  very  present 
minded  as  to  what  was  afar.  That  which 
should  have  been  near  was  generally  far  to  his 
mind,  which  was  perpetually  gathering  tha 
wool  of  rainbow  sheep  in  distant  pastures. 

If  there  was  anything  in  which  Karl  von 


34  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Eosen  did  not  take  the  slightest  interest,  it  was 
women's  clubs  in  general  and  the  Zenith  Club 
in  particular;  and  here  he  was,  doomed  by  his 
own  lack  of  thought  to  sit  through  an  especially 
long  session.  He  had  gone  out  for  a  walk.  To 
his  mind  it  was  a  fine  winter's  day.  The  long, 
glittering  lights  of  ice  pleased  him  and  when 
ever  he  was  sure  that  he  was  unobserved  he 
took  a  boyish  run  and  long  slide.  During  his 
walk  he  had  reached  Mrs.  Blade's  house,  and 
since  he  worked  in  his  pastoral  calls  whenever 
he  could,  by  applying  a  sharp  spur  to  his  dis 
inclination,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  make  one,  and  return  to  his  study  in  a 
virtuous  frame  of  mind  over  a  slight  and  un 
important,  but  bothersome  duty  performed. 
If  he  had  had  his  wits  about  him  he  might  have 
seen  the  feminine  heads  at  the  windows,  he 
might  have  heard  the  quaver  of  Miss  Bessy 
Dicky's  voice  over  the  club  report;  but  he  saw 
and  heard  nothing,  and  now  he  was  seated  in 
the  midst  of  the  feminine  throng,  and  Miss 
Bessy  Dicky's  voice  quavered  more,  and  she  as 
sumed  a  slightly  mincing  attitude.  Her  thin 
hands  trembled  more,  the  hot,  red  spots  on  her 


GO 


O     O 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  35 

thin  cheeks  deepened.  Eeading  the  club  re 
ports  before  the  minister  was  an  epoch  in  an 
epochless  life,  but  Karl  von  Rosen  was  oblivi 
ous  of  her  except  as  a  disturbing  element 
rather  more  insistent  than  the  others  in  which 
he  was  submerged. 

He  sat  straight  and  grave,  his  eyes  retro 
spective.  He  was  constantly  getting  into  awk 
ward  situations,  and  acquitting  himself  in  them 
with  marvellous  dignity  and  grace.  Even  Mrs. 
Sarah  Joy  Snyder,  astute  as  she  was,  regarded 
him  keenly,  and  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
tell  whether  he  had  come  premeditately  or  not. 
She  only  discovered  one  thing,  that  poor  Miss 
Bessy  Dicky  was  reading  at  him  and  posing  at 
him  and  trembling  her  hands  at  him,  and  that 
she  was  throwing  it  all  away,  for  Von  Rosen 
heard  no  more  of  her  report  than  if  he  had  been 
in  China  when  she  was  reading  it.  Mrs.  Snyder 
realised  that  hardly  anything  in  nature  could 
be  so  totally  uninteresting  to  the  young  man  as 
the  report  of  a  woman's  club.  Inasmuch  as  she 
herself  was  devoted  to  such  things,  she  re 
garded  him  with  disapproval,  although  with  a 
certain  admiration.  Karl  von  Rosen  always 


36  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

commanded  admiration,  although  often  of  a 
grudging  character,  from  women.  His  utter 
indifference  to  them  as  women  was  the  prime 
factor  in  this ;  next  to  that  his  really  attractive, 
even  distinguished,  personality.  He  was  hand 
some  after  the  fashion  which  usually  accom 
panies  devotion  to  women.  He  was  slight,  but 
sinewy,  with  a  gentle,  poetical  face  and  great 
black  eyes,  into  which  women  were  apt  to  pro 
ject  tenderness  merely  from  their  own  fancy. 
It  seemed  ridiculous  and  anomalous  that  a  man 
of  Von  Bosen's  type  should  not  be  a  lover  of 
ladies,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  most  certainly 
not  was  both  fascinating  and  exasperating. 

Now  Mrs.  George  B.  Slade,  magnificent  ma 
tron,  as  she  was,  moreover  one  who  had  inhaled 
the  perfume  of  adulation  from  her  youth  up, 
felt  a  calm  malice.  She  knew  that  he  had  en 
tered  her  parlour  after  the  manner  of  the  spider 
and  fly  rhyme  of  her  childhood ;  she  knew  that 
the  other  ladies  would  infer  that  he  had  come 
upon  her  invitation,  and  her  soul  was  filled  with 
one  of  the  petty  triumphs  of  petty  Fairbridge. 

She,  however,  did  not  dream  of  the  actual 
misery  which  filled  the  heart  of  the  graceful, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  37 

dignified  young  man  by  her  side.  She  consid 
ered  herself  in  the  position  of  a  mother,  who 
forces  an  undesired,  but  nevertheless,  delectable 
sweet  upon  a  child,  who  gazes  at  her  with  ado 
ration  when  the  savour  has  reached  his  palate. 
She  did  not  expect  Von  Rosen  to  be  much  edi 
fied  by  Miss  Bessy  Dicky's  report.  She  had 
her  own  opinion  of  Miss  Bessy  Dicky,  of  her 
sleeves,  of  her  gown,  and  her  report,  but  she 
had  faith  in  the  truly  decorative  features  of  the 
occasion  when  they  should  be  underway,  and 
she  had  immense  faith  in  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy  Sny- 
der.  She  was  relieved  when  Miss  Bessy  Dicky 
sat  down,  and  endeavoured  to  compose  her 
knees,  which  by  this  time  were  trembling  like 
her  hands,  and  also  to  assume  an  expression  as 
if  she  had  done  nothing  at  all,  and  nobody  was 
looking  at  her.  That  last  because  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  done  so  little,  and  nobody  was 
looking  at  her  rendered  her  rather  pathetic. 

Miss  Bessy  Dicky  did  not  glance  at  the  min 
ister,  but  she,  nevertheless,  saw  him.  She  had 
never  had  a  lover,  and  here  was  the  hero  of  her 
dreams.  He  would  never  know  it  and  nobody 
else  would  ever  know  it,  and  no  harm  would  be 


38  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

done  except  very  possibly,  by  and  by,  a  lacera 
tion  of  the  emotions  of  an  elderly  maiden,  and 
afterwards  a  life-long  scar.  But  who  goes, 
through  life  without  emotional  scars! 

After  Miss  Bessy  Dicky  sat  down,  Mrs.  Wil 
bur  Edes,  the  lady  of  the  silver  bell,  rose.  She 
lifted  high  her  delicate  chin,  her  perfect  blond 
pompadour  caught  the  light,  her  black  lace  robe 
swept  round  her  in  rich  darkness,  with  occa 
sional  revelations  of  flower  and  leaf,  the  fairly 
poetical  pattern  of  real  lace.  As  she  rose,  she 
diffused  around  her  a  perfume  as  if  rose-leaves 
were  stirred  up.  She  held  a  dainty  handker 
chief,  edged  with  real  lace,  in  her  little  left 
hand,  which  glittered  with  rings.  In  her  right, 
was  a  spangled  fan  like  a  black  butterfly.  Mrs. 
Edes  was  past  her  first  youth,  but  she  was  un 
deniably  charming.  She  was  like  a  little,  per 
fect,  ivory  toy,  which  time  has  played  with  but 
has  not  injured.  Mrs.  Slade  looked  at  her, 
then  at  Karl  von  Eosen.  He  looked  at  Mrs. 
Wilbur  Edes,  then  looked  away.  She  was  most 
graceful,  but  most  positively  uninteresting. 
However,  Mrs.  Slade  was  rather  pleased  at 
that.  She  and  Mrs.  Edes  were  rival  stars. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  39 

Von  Eosen  bad  never  looked  long  at  her, 
and  it  seemed  right  he  should  not  look  long  at 
the  other  woman. 

Mrs.  Slade  surveyed  Mrs.  Edes  as  sHe  an 
nounced  the  next  number  on  the  programme, 
and  told  herself  that  Mrs.  Edes'  gown  might 
he  real  lace  and  everything  about  her  very  real, 
and  nice,  and  elegant,  but  she  was  certainly  a 
little  fussy  for  so  small  a  woman.  Mrs.  Slade 
considered  that  she  herself  could  have  carried 
off  that  elegance  in  a  much  more  queenly  man 
ner.  There  was  one  feature  of  Mrs.  Edes' 
costume  which  Mrs.  Slade  resented.  She  con 
sidered  that  it  should  be  worn  by  a  woman  of 
her  own  size  and  impressiveness.  That  was  a 
little  wrap  of  ermine.  Now  ermine,  as  every 
body  knew,  should  only  be  worn  by  large  and 
queenly  women.  Mrs.  Slade  resolved  that  she 
herself  would  have  an  ermine  wrap  which 
should  completely  outshine  Mrs.  Edes'  little  af 
fair,  all  swinging  with  tails  and  radiant  with 
tiny,  bright-eyed  heads. 

Mrs.  Edes  announced  a  duet  by  Miss  Mac- 
Donald  and  Mrs.  Wells,  and  sat  down,  and 
again  the  perfume  of  rose  leaves  was  percepti- 


40  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

ble.  Karl  von  Bosen  glanced  at  the  next  per 
formers,  Miss  MacDonald,  who  was  very  pretty 
and  well-dressed  in  white  embroidered  cloth, 
and  Mrs.  Wells,  who  was  not  pretty,  but  was 
considered  very  striking,  who  trailed  after  her 
in  green  folds  edged  with  fur,  and  bore  a  roll 
of  music.  She  seated  herself  at  the  piano  with 
a  graceful  sweep  of  her  green  draperies,  which 
'defined  her  small  hips,  and  struck  the  keys  with 
slender  fingers  quite  destitute  of  rings,  always 
lifting  them  high  with  a  palpable  affectation  not 
exactly  doubtful — that  was  saying  too  much — 
but  she  was  considered  to  reach  limits  of  pro 
priety  with  her  sinuous  motions,  the  touch  of 
her  sensitive  fingers  upon  piano  keys,  and  the 
quick  flash  of  her  dark  eyes  in  her  really  plain 
face.  There  was,  for  the  women  in  Fairbridge, 
a  certain  mischievous  fascination  about  Mrs. 
Wells.  Moreover,  they  had  in  her  their  one  ob 
ject  of  covert  gossip,  their  one  stimulus  to  un 
lawful  imagination. 

There  was  a  young  man  who  played  the  vio 
lin.  His  name  was  Henry  Wheaton,  and  he 
was  said  to  be  a  frequent  caller  at  Mrs.  Wells', 
and  she  played  his  accompaniments,  and  Mr. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  41 

Wells  was  often  detained  in  New  York  until  the 
late  train.  Then  there  was  another  young  man 
who  played  the  'cello,  and  he  called  often. 
And  there  was  Ellis  Bainbridge,  who  had  a  fine 
tenor  voice,  and  he  called.  It  was  delightful 
to  have  a  woman  of  that  sort,  of  whom  nothing 
distinctly  culpable  could  be  affirmed,  against 
whom  no  good  reason  could  be  brought  for  ex 
cluding  her  from  the  Zenith  Club  and  the  so 
cial  set.  In  their  midst,  Mrs.  Wells  furnished 
the  condiments,  the  spice,  and  pepper,  and  mus 
tard  for  many  functions.  She  relieved  to  a 
great  extent  the  monotony  of  unquestioned 
propriety.  It  would  have  been  horribly  dull 
if  there  had  been  no  woman  in  the  Zenith  Club 
who  furnished  an  excuse  for  the  other  mem 
bers'  gossip. 

Leila  MacDonald,  so  carefully  dressed  and 
brushed  and  washed,  and  so  free  from  defects 
that  she  was  rather  irritating,  began  to  sing, 
then  people  listened.  Karl  von  Rosen  listened. 
She  really  had  a  voice  which  always  surprised 
and  charmed  with  the  first  notes,  then  ceased 
to  charm.  Leila  MacDonald  was  as  a  good  ca 
nary  bird,  born  to  sing,  and  dutifully  singing, 


42  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

but  without  the  slightest  comprehension  of  her 
song.  It  was  odd  too  that  she  sang  with  plenty 
of  expression,  but  her  own  lack  of  realisation 
seemed  to  dull  it  for  her  listeners.  Karl  von 
Eosen  listened,  then  his  large  eyes  again  turned 
introspective. 

Mrs.  Edes  again  arose,  after  the  singing  and 
playing  ladies  had  finished  their  performance 
and  returned  to  their  seats,  and  announced  a 
recitation  by  Miss  Sally  Anderson.  Miss 
Anderson  wore  a  light  summer  gown,  and 
swept  to  the  front,  and  bent  low  to  her  audi 
ence,  then  at  once  began  her  recitation  with  a 
loud  crash  of  emotion.  She  postured,  she  ges 
ticulated.  She  lowered  her  voice  to  inaudibil 
ity,  she  raised  it  to  shrieks  and  wails.  She  did 
everything  which  she  had  been  taught,  and  she! 
had  been  taught  a  great  deal.  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy 
Snyder  listened  and  got  data  for  future  lec 
tures,  with  her  mirthful  mouth  sternly  set. 

After  Sally  Anderson,  Mrs.  Jack  Evarts 
played  a  glittering  thing  called  "  Waves  of  the 
Sea."  Then  Sally  Anderson  recited  again, 
then  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes  spoke  at  length,  and 
with  an  air  which  commanded  attention,  and 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  43 

Von  Rosen  suffered  agonies.  He  laughed  with 
sickly  spurts  at  Mrs.  Snyder's  confidential  sal 
lies,  when  she  had  at  last  her  chance  to  deliver 
herself  of  her  ten  dollar  speech,  but  the  worst 
ordeal  was  to  follow.  Von  Rosen  was  fluttered 
about  by  women  bearing  cups  of  tea,  of  frothy 
chocolate,  plates  of  cake,  dishes  of  bonbons, 
and  saucers  of  ice-cream.  He  loathed  sweets 
and  was  forced  into  accepting  a  plate.  He 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  feminine  throng,  the 
solitary  male  figure  looking  at  his  cup  of  choc 
olate,  and  a  slice  of  sticky  cake,  and  at  an  ice 
representing  a  chocolate  lily,  which  somebody 
had  placed  for  special  delectation  upon  a  little 
table  at  his  right.  Then  Alice  Mendon  came  to 
his  rescue. 

She  deftly  took  the  plate  with  the  sticky  cake, 
and  the  cup  of  hot  chocolate,  and  substituted 
a  plate  with  a  chicken  mayonnaise  sandwich, 
smiling  pleasantly  as  she  did  so. 

'  *  Here, ' '  she  whispered.  i  i  Why  do  you  make 
a  martyr  of  yourself  for  such  a  petty  cause? 
Do  it  for  the  faith  if  you  want  to,  but  not  for 
thick  chocolate  and  angel  cake." 

She    swept    away    the    chocolate    lily    also. 


44  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Von  Eosen  looked  at  her  gratefully.  "  Thank 
you,"  he  murmured. 

She  laughed.  "Oh,  you  need  not  thank  me," 
she  said.  "I  have  a  natural  instinct  to  rescue 
men  from  sweets."  She  laughed  again  mali 
ciously.  "I  am  sure  you  have  enjoyed  the 
club  very  much,"  she  said. 

Von  Eosen  coloured  before  her  sarcastic, 
kindly  eyes.  He  began  to  speak,  but  she  inter 
rupted  him.  "You  have  heard  that  silence  is 
golden,"  said  she.  "It  is  always  golden  when 
speech  would  be  a  lie." 

Then  she  turned  away  and  seized  upon  the 
chocolate  lily  and  pressed  it  upon  Mrs.  Joy 
Snyder,  who  was  enjoying  adulation  and  good 
things. 

"Do  please  have  this  lovely  lily,  Mrs.  Sny- 
der,"  she  said.  "It  is  the  very  prettiest  ice  of 
the  lot,  and  meant  especially  for  you.  I  am 
sure  you  will  enjoy  it." 

And  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy  Snyder,  whose  sense  of 
humour  deserted  her  when  she  was  being 
praised  and  fed,  and  who  had  already  eaten 
bonbons  innumerable,  and  three  ices  with  ac 
companying  cake,  took  the  chocolate  lily  grate- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  45 

fully.  Von  Rosen  ate  his  chicken  sandwich 
and  marvelled  at  the  ways  of  women. 

After  Von  Rosen  had  finished  his  sandwiches 
and  tea,  he  made  his  way  to  Mrs.  Snyder,  and 
complimented  her  upon  her  lecture.  He  had 
a  constitutional  dislike  for  falsehoods,  which 
was  perhaps  not  so  much  a  virtue  as  an  idio 
syncrasy.  Now  he  told  Mrs.  Snyder  that  he 
had  never  heard  a  lecture  which  seemed  to 
amuse  an  audience  more  than  hers  had  done, 
and  that  he  quite  envied  her  because  of  her 
power  of  holding  attention.  Mrs.  Snyder,  with 
the  last  petal  of  her  chocolate  lily  sweet  upon 
her  tongue,  listened  with  such  a  naivete  of  ac 
quiescence  that  she  was  really  charming,  and 
Von  Rosen  had  spoken  the  truth.  He  had  won 
dered,  when  he  saw  the  eagerly  tilted  faces  of 
the  women,  and  heard  their  bursts  of  shrill 
laughter  and  clapping  of  hands,  why  he  could 
not  hold  them  with  his  sermons  which,  he  might 
assume  without  vanity,  contained  considerable 
subject  for  thought,  as  this  woman,  with  her 
face  like  a  mask  of  mirth,  held  them  with  her 
compilation  of  platitudes. 

He  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  so  many 


46  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

women  listen  with  such  intensity,  and  lack  of 
self-consciousness.  He  had  seen  only  two  pat 
their  hair,  only  one  glance  at  her  glittering 
rings,  only  three  arrange  the  skirts  of  their 
gowns  while  the  lecture  was  in  progress. 
Sometimes  during  his  sermons,  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  holding  forth  to  a  bewildering  sea  of  mo 
tion  with  steadily  recurrent  waves,  which  fas 
cinated  him,  of  feathers,  and  flowers,  swinging 
fur  tails,  and  kid-gloved  hands,  fluttering  rib 
bons,  and  folds  of  drapery.  Karl  von  Eosen 
would  not  have  acknowledged  himself  as  a 
woman-hater,  that  savoured  too  much  of  ab 
surd  male  egotism,  but  he  had  an  under  convic 
tion  that  women  were,  on  the  whole,  admitting 
of  course  exceptions,  self-centred  in  the  pur 
suit  of  petty  ends  to  the  extent  of  absolute  vi- 
ciousness.  He  disliked  women,  although  he 
had  never  owned  it  to  himself. 

In  spite  of  his  dislike  of  women,  Von  Eosen 
had  a  house-keeper.  He  had  made  an  ineffec 
tual  trial  of  an  ex-hotel  chef,  but  had  finally 
been  obliged  to  resort  to  Mrs.  Jane  Eiggs. 
She  was  tall  and  strong,  wider-shouldered  than 
hipped.  She  went  about  her  work  with  long 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  47 

strides.     She  never  fussed.     She  never  asked 
questions.    In  fact,  she  seldom  spoke. 

When  Von  Rosen  entered  his  house  that 
night,  after  the  club  meeting,  he  had  a  com- 
fortahle  sense  of  returning  to  an  embodied  si 
lence.  The  coal  fire  in  his  study  grate  was 
red  and  clear.  Everything  was  in  order  with 
out  misplacement.  That  was  one  of  Jane 
Riggs'  chief  talents.  She  could  tidy  things 
without  misplacing  them.  Von  Rosen  loved 
order,  and  was  absolutely  incapable  of  keeping 
it.  Therefore  Jane  Riggs'  orderliness  was  as 
balm.  He  sat  down  in  his  Morris  chair  before 
his  fire,  stretched  out  his  legs  to  the  warmth, 
which  was  grateful  after  the  icy  outdoor  air, 
rested  his  eyes  upon  a  plaster  cast  over  the 
chimney  place,  which  had  been  tinted  a  beauti 
ful  hue  by  his  own  pipe,  and  sighed  with  con 
tent.  His  own  handsome  face  was  rosy  with 
the  reflection  of  the  fire,  his  soul  rose-coloured 
with  complete  satisfaction.  He  was  so  glad  to 
be  quit  of  that  crowded  assemblage  of  eager 
femininity,  so  glad  that  it  was  almost  worth 
while  to  have  encountered  it  just  for  that  sense 
of  blessed  relief. 


48  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Edes  had  offered  to  take  him  home  in 
her  carriage,  and  he  had  declined  almost 
brusquely.  To  have  exchanged  that  homeward 
walk  over  the  glistening  earth,  and  under  the 
clear  rose  and  violet  lights  of  the  winter  sunset, 
with  that  sudden  rapturous  discovery  of  the 
slender  crescent  of  the  new  moon,  for  a  ride 
with  Mrs.  Edes  in  her  closed  carriage  with  her 
silvery  voice  in  his  ear  instead  of  the  keen  si 
lence  of  the  winter  air,  would  have  been  tor 
ture.  Von  Eosen  wondered  at  himself  for  dis 
liking  Mrs.  Edes  in  particular,  whereas  he  dis 
liked  most  women  in  general.  There  was 
something  about  her  feline  motions  instinct  with 
swiftness,  and  concealed  claws,  and  the  half 
keen,  half  sleepy  glances  of  her  green-blue  eyes, 
which  irritated  him  beyond  measure,  and  he 
was  ashamed  of  being  irritated.  It  implied  a 
power  over  him,  and  yet  it  was  certainly  not  a 
physical  power.  It  was  subtle  and  pertained 
to  spirit.  He  realised,  as  did  many  in  Fair- 
bridge,  a  strange  influence,  defying  reason 
and  will,  which  this  small  woman  with  her  hid 
den  swiftness  had  over  nearly  everybody  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact.  It  had  nothing 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  49 

whatever  to  do  with  sex.  She  would  have  pro 
duced  it  in  the  same  degree,  had  she  not  been 
in  the  least  attractive.  It  was  compelling,  and 
at  the  same  time  irritating. 

Von  Rosen  in  his  Morris  chair  after  the  tea 
welcomed  the  intrusion  of  Jane  Riggs,  which 
dispelled  his  thought  of  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes. 
Jane  stood  beside  the  chair,  a  rigid  straight 
length  of  woman  with  a  white  apron  starched 
like  a  board,  covering  two  thirds  of  her,  and 
waited  for  interrogation. 

"What  is  it,  Jane?"  asked  Von  Rosen. 

Jane  Riggs  replied  briefly.  "Outlandish 
young  woman  out  in  the  kitchen,"  she  said  with 
distinct  disapproval,  yet  with  evident  helpless 
ness  before  the  situation. 

Von  Rosen  started.    "Where  is  the  dog?" 

"Licking  her  hands.  Every  time  I  told  her 
to  go,  Jack  growled.  Mebbe  you  had  better 
come  out  yourself,  Mr.  Von  Rosen." 

When  Von  Rosen  entered  the  kitchen,  he  saw 
a  little  figure  on  the  floor  in  a  limp  heap,  with 
the  dog  frantically  licking  its  hands,  which  were 
very  small  and  brown  and  piteously  outspread, 
as  if  in  supplication. 


50  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Mebbe  you  had  better  call  up  the  doctor  on 
the  telephone;  she  seems  to  have  swooned 
away, ' '  said  Jane  Eiggs.  At  the  same  time  she 
made  one  long  stride  to  the  kitchen  sink,  and 
water.  Von  Rosen  looked  aghast  at  the 
stricken  figure,  which  was  wrapped  in  a  queer 
medley  of  garments.  He  also  saw  on  the  floor 
near  by  a  bulging  suitcase. 

"She  is  one  of  them  pedlars,"  said  Jane 
Riggs,  dashing  water  upon  the  dumb  little  face. 
"I  rather  guess  you  had  better  call  up  the  doc 
tor  on  the  telephone.  She  don't  seem  to  be 
coming  to  easy  and  she  may  have  passed 
away. ' ' 

Von  Rosen  gasped,  then  he  looked  pitifully 
at  the  poor  little  figure,  and  ran  back  to  his 
study  to  the  telephone.  To  his  great  relief  as 
he  passed  the  window,  he  glanced  out,  and  saw 
Doctor  Sturtevant's  automobile  making  its  way 
cautiously  over  the  icy  street.  Then  for  the 
first  time  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  due 
at  that  time  about  a  matter  of  a  sick  parish 
ioner.  He  opened  the  front  door  hurriedly, 
and  stated  the  case,  and  the  two  men  carried 
the  little  unconscious  creature  upstairs.  Then 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  51 

Von  Rosen  came  down,  leaving  the  doctor  and 
Martha  with  her.  He  waited  in  the  study,  lis 
tening  to  the  sounds  overhead,  waiting  impa 
tiently  for  the  doctor's  return,  which  was  not 
for  half  an  hour  or  more.  In  the  meantime 
Martha  came  downstairs  tn  some  errand  to 
the  kitchen.  Von  Rosen  intercepted  her. 
"What  does  Doctor  Sturtevant  think?"  he 
asked. 

"Dunno,  what  he  thinks,"  replied  Martha 
brusquely,  pushing  past  him. 

"Is  she  conscious  yet?" 

"Dunno,  I  ain't  got  any  time  to  talk,"  said 
Martha,  casting  a  flaming  look  at  him  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  entered  the  kitchen. 

Von  Rosen  retreated  to  the  study,  where  he 
was  presently  joined  by  the  doctor.  "What  is 
it?"  asked  Von  Rosen  with  an  emphasis,  which 
rendered  it  so  suspicious  that  he  might  have 
added:  "what  the  devil  is  it?"  had  it  not  been 
for  his  profession. 

Sturtevant  answered  noiselessly,  the  motion 
of  his  lips  conveying  his  meaning.  Then  he 
said,  shrugging  himself  into  his  fur  coat,  as 
he  spoke,  "I  have  to  rush  my  motor  to  see  a 


52  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

patient,  whom  I  dare  not  leave  another  mo 
ment,  then  I  will  be  back." 

Von  Bosen's  great  Persian  cat  had  curled 
himself  on  the  doctor's  fur  coat,  and  now 
shaken  off,  sat  with  a  languid  dignity,  his  great 
yellow  plume  of  a  tail  waving,  and  his  eyes 
like  topazes  fixed  intently  upon  Sturtevant. 
At  that  moment  a  little  cry  was  heard  from  the 
guest  room,  a  cry  between  a  moan  and  a 
scream,  but  unmistakably  a  note  of  suffering. 
Sturtevant  jammed  his  fur  cap  upon  his  head 
and  pulled  on  his  gloves. 

" Don't  go,"  pleaded  Von  Eosen  in  a  sudden 
terror  of  helplessness. 

"I  must,  but  I'll  break  the  speed  laws  and 
be  back  before  you  know  it.  That  housekeeper 
of  yours  is  as  good  as  any  trained  nurse,  and 
better.  She  is  as  hard  as  nails,  but  she  does 
her  duty  like  a  machine,  and  she  has  brains. 
I  will  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

Then  Sturtevant  was  gone,  and  Von  Eosen 
sat  again  before  his  study  fire.  There  was  an 
other  little  note  of  suffering  from  above.  Von 
Eosen  shuddered,  rose,  and  closed  his  door. 
The  Persian  cat  came  and  sat  in  front  of  him, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  53 

and  gazed  at  him  with  jewel-like  eyes.  There 
was  an  expression  of  almost  human  anxiety 
and  curiosity  upon  the  animal's  face.  He 
came  from  a  highly  developed  race ;  he  and  his 
forbears  had  always  been  with  humans.  At 
times  it  seemed  to  Von  Rosen  as  if  the  cat  had 
a  dumb  knowledge  of  the  most  that  he  himself 
knew.  He  reached  down  and  patted  the 
shapely  golden  head,  but  the  cat  withdrew, 
curled  himself  into  a  coil  of  perfect  luxurious- 
ness,  with  the  firelight  casting  a  warm,  rosy 
glow  upon  his  golden  beauty,  purred  a  little 
while,  then  sank  into  the  mystery  of  animal 
sleep. 

Von  Rosen  sat  listening.  He  told  himself 
that  Sturtevant  should  be  back  within  half  an 
hour.  When  only  ten  minutes  had  passed  he 
took  out  his  watch  and  was  dismayed  to  find 
how  short  a  time  had  elapsed.  He  replaced  his 
watch  and  leaned  back.  He  was  always  listen 
ing  uneasily.  He  had  encountered  illness  and 
death  and  distress,  but  never  anything  quite 
like  this.  He  had  always  been  able  to  give 
personal  aid.  Now  he  felt  barred  out,  and 
fiercely  helpless. 


54  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

He  sat  ten  minutes  longer.  Then  he  arose. 
He  could  reach  the  kitchen  by  another  way 
which  did  not  lead  past  the  stairs.  He  went 
out  there,  treading  on  tiptoe.  The  cat  had 
looked  up,  stretched,  and  lazily  gotten  upon  his 
feet  and  followed  him,  tail  waving  like  a  pen 
nant.  He  brushed  around  Von  Eosen  out  in 
the  kitchen,  and  mewed  a  little,,  delicate,  high 
bred  mew.  The  dog  came  leaping  up  the  base 
ment  stairs,  sat  up  and  begged.  Von  Rosen 
opened  the  ice  box  and  found  therein  some 
steak.  He  cut  off  large  pieces  and  fed  the  cat 
and  dog.  He  also  found  milk  and  filled  a  sau 
cer. 

He  stole  back  to  the  study.  He  thought  he 
had  closed  all  the  doors,  but  presently  the  cat 
entered,  then  sat  down  and  began  to  lick  him 
self  with  his  little  red  rough  tongue.  Von 
Rosen  looked  at  his  watch  again.  The  house 
shook  a  little,  and  he  knew  that  the  shaking  wa.s 
caused  by  Jane  Riggs,  walking  upstairs.  He 
longed  to  go  upstairs  but  knew  that  he  could 
not,  and  again  that  rage  of  helplessness  came 
over  him.  He  reflected  upon  human  life,  the 
agony  of  its  beginning;  the  agony,  in  spite  of 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  55 

bravery,  in  spite  of  denial  of  agony,  the  agony 
under  the  brightest  of  suns,  of  its  endurance; 
the  agony  of  its  end;  and  his  reflections  were 
almost  blasphemous.  His  religion  seemed  to 
crumble  beneath  the  standing-place  of  his  soul. 
A  torture  of  doubt,  a  certainty  of  ignorance,  in 
spite  of  the  utmost  efforts  of  faith,  came  over 
him.  The  cat  coiled  himself  again  and  sank 
into  sleep.  Von  Rosen  gazed  at  him.  What 
if  the  accepted  order  of  things  were  reversed, 
after  all?  What  if  that  beautiful  little  animal 
were  on  a  higher  plane  than  he?  Certainly 
the  cat  did  not  suffer,  and  certainly  suffering 
and  doubt  degraded  even  the  greatest. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  Sturte- 
vant  had  been  gone  five  minutes  over  the  half 
hour.  He  switched  off  the  electric  light,  and 
stood  in  his  window,  which  faced  the  street 
down  which  the  doctor  in  his  car  must  come. 
He  realised  at  once  that  this  was  more  endur 
able.  He  was  doing  what  a  woman  would  have 
done  long  before.  He  was  masculine,  and  had 
not  the  quick  instinct  to  stand  by  the  window 
and  watch  out,  to  ease  impatience.  The  road 
was  like  a  broad  silver  band  under  the  moon. 


56  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

The  lights  in  house  windows  gleamed  through 
drawn  shades,  except  in  one  house,  where  he 
could  see  quite  distinctly  a  woman  seated  be 
side  a  lamp  with  a  green  shade,  sewing,  with 
regular  motions  of  a  red,  silk-clad  arm.  Von 
Eosen  strained  his  eyes,  and  saw,  as  he 
thought,  a  dark  hulk  advancing  far  down  the 
street.  He  watched  and  watched,  then  noted 
that  the  dark  bulk  had  not  moved.  He  won 
dered  if  the  motor  had  broken  down.  He 
thought  of  running  out  to  see,  and  made  a  mo 
tion  to  go,  then  he  saw  swiftly-moving  lights 
pass  the  dark  bulk.  He  thought  they  were  the 
lights  of  the  motor,  but  as  they  passed  he  saw 
it  was  a  cab  taking  someone  to  the  railroad  sta 
tion.  He  knew  then  that  the  dark  bulk  was  a 
clump  of  trees. 

Then,  before  he  could  fairly  sense  it,  the  doc 
tor's  motor  came  hurtling  down  the  street,  its 
search-lights  glaring,  swinging  from  side  to 
side.  The  machine  stopped,  and  Von  Eosen 
ran  to  the  door. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Sturtevant  in  a  hushed 
voice.  There  was  a  sound  from  the  room 
above,  and  the  doctor,  Von  Eosen  and  nurse 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  57 

looked  at  each  other.  Then  Von  Rosen  sat 
again  alone  in  his  study,  and  now,  in  spite  of 
the  closed  door,  he  heard  noises  above  stairs. 
Solitude  was  becoming  frightful  to  him.  He 
felt  all  at  once  strangely  young,  like  a  child, 
and  a  pitiful  sense  of  injury  was  over  him,  but 
the  sense  of  injury  was  not  for  himself  alone, 
but  for  all  mankind.  He  realised  that  all  man 
kind  was  enormously  pitiful  and  injured,  by  the 
mere  fact  of  their  obligatory  existence.  And 
he  wished  more  than  anything  in  the  world  for 
some  understanding  soul  with  whom  to  share 
his  sense  of  the  universal  grievance. 

But  he  continued  to  sit  alone,  and  the  cat 
slept  in  his  golden  coil  of  peace.  Then  sud 
denly  the  cat  sat  up,  and  his  jewel  eyes  glowed. 
He  looked  fixedly  at  a  point  in  the  room.  Von 
Rosen  looked  in  the  same  direction  but  saw 
nothing  except  his  familiar  wall.  Then  he 
heard  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  the  door  opened, 
and  Jane  Riggs  entered.  She  was  white  and 
stern.  She  was  tragic.  Her  lean  fingers  were 
clutching  at  the  air.  Von  Rosen  stared  at  her. 
She  sat  down  and  swept  her  crackling  white 
apron  over  her  head. 


CHAPTEE  III 

WHEN  Margaret  Edes  had  returned  home  after 
the  Zenith  Club,  she  devoted  an  hour  to  rest. 
She  had  ample  time  for  that  before  dressing 
for  a  dinner  which  she  and  her  husband  were 
to  give  in  New  York  that  evening.  The  din 
ner  was  set  for  rather  a  late  hour  in  order  to 
enable  Margaret  to  secure  this  rest  before  the 
train-time.  She  lay  on  a  couch  before  the  fire, 
in  her  room  which  was  done  in  white  and  gold. 
Her  hair  was  perfectly  arranged,  for  she  had 
scarcely  moved  her  head  during  the  club  meet 
ing,  and  had  adjusted  and  removed  her  hat 
with  the  utmost  caution.  Now  she  kept  her 
shining  head  perfectly  still  upon  a  rather  hard 
pillow.  She  did  not  relax  her  head,  but  she  did 
relax  her  body,  and  the  result,  as  she  was 
aware,  would  be  beautifying. 

Still  as  her  head  remained,  she  allowed  no 
lines  of  disturbance  to  appear  upon  her  face,  and 
for  that  matter,  no  lines  of  joy.  Secretly  she  did 
not  approve  of  smiles,  more  than  she  approved 

58 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  59 

of  tears.  Both  of  them,  she  knew,  tended  to 
leave  traces,  and  other  people,  especially  other 
women,  did  not  discriminate  between  the  traces 
of  tears  and  smiles.  Therefore,  lying  with  her 
slim  graceful  body  stretched  out  at  full  length 
upon  her  couch,  Margaret  Edes'  face  was  as  ab 
solutely  devoid  of  expression  as  a  human  face 
could  well  be,  and  this  although  she  was  think 
ing  rather  strenuously.  She  had  not  been 
pleased  with  the  impression  which  Mrs.  Sarah 
Joy  Snyder  had  made  upon  the  Zenith  Club, 
because  Mrs.  Slade,  and  not  she,  had  been  in 
strumental  in  securing  her  valuable  services. 
Mrs.  Edes  had  a  Napoleonic  ambition  which 
was  tragic  and  pathetic,  because  it  could  com 
mand  only  a  narrow  scope  for  its  really  un 
usual  force.  If  Mrs.  Edes  had  only  been  pos 
sessed  of  the  opportunity  to  subjugate  Europe, 
nothing  except  another  Waterloo  could  have 
stopped  her  onward  march.  But  she  had  ab 
solutely  nothing  to  subjugate  except  poor  little 
Fairbridge.  She  was  a  woman  of  power  which 
was  wasted.  She  was  absurdly  tragic,  but 
none  the  less  tragic.  Power  spent  upon  petty; 
ends  is  one  of  the  greatest  disasters  of  the 


60  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

world.  It  wrecks  not  only  the  spender,  but  its 
object.  Mrs.  Edes  was  horribly  and  unworth 
ily  unhappy,  reflecting  upon  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy 
Snyder  and  Mrs.  Slade.  She  cared  very  much 
because  Mrs.  Slade  and  not  she  had  brought 
about  this  success  of  the  Zenith  Club,  with 
Mrs.  Snyder  as  high-light.  It  was  a  shame 
to  her,  but  she  could  not  help  it,  because  one 
living  within  narrow  horizons  must  have  lim 
ited  aims. 

If  only  her  husband  had  enough  money  to  en 
able  her  to  live  in  New  York  after  the  manner 
which  would  have  suited  her,  she  felt  capable) 
of  being  a  leading  power  in  that  great  and 
dreadful  city.  Probably  she  was  right.  The 
woman  was  in  reality  possessed  of  abnormal 
nerve  force.  Had  Wilbur  Edes  owned  mil 
lions,  and  she  been  armed  with  the  power  which 
they  can  convey,  she  might  have  worked  mira 
cles  in  her  subtle  feminine  fashion.  She  would 
always  have  worked  subtly,  and  never  believed 
her  feminine  self.  She  understood  its  worth 
too  well.  She  would  have  conquered  like  a  cat, 
because  she  understood  her  weapons,  her  vel 
vet  charm,  her  purr,  and  her  claws.  She  would 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  61 

not  have  attempted  a  growling  and  bulky  leap 
into  success.  She  would  have  slid  and  insinu 
ated  and  made  her  gliding  progress  almost  im 
perceptible,  but  none  the  less  remorseless. 

But  she  was  fated  to  live  in  Fairbridge. 
What  else  could  she  do?  Wilbur  Edes  was 
successful  in  his  profession,  but  he  was  not  an 
accumulator,  and  neither  was  she.  His  income 
was  large  during  some  years,  but  it  was  spent 
during  those  years  for  things  which  seemed  ab 
solutely  indispensable  to  both  husband  and 
wife.  For  instance,  to-night  Wilbur  would 
spend  an  extravagant  sum  upon  this  dinner, 
which  he  was  to  give  at  an  extravagant  hotel 
to  some  people  whom  Mrs.  Edes  had  met  last 
summer,  and  who,  if  not  actually  in  the  great 
swinij  were  in  the  outer  froth  of  it,  and  she  had 
vague  imaginings  of  future  gain  through 
them.  Wilbur  had  carried  his  dress  suit  in 
that  morning.  He  was  to  take  a  room  in  the 
hotel  and  change,  and  meet  her  at  the  New 
York  side  of  the  ferry.  As  she  thought  of  the 
ferry  it  was  all  Mrs.  Edes  could  do  to  keep  her 
smooth  brow  from  a  frown.  Somehow  the 
ferry  always  humiliated  her;  the  necessity  of 


62  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

going  up  or  down  that  common,  democratic 
gang  plank,  clinging  to  the  tail  of  her  fine  gown, 
and  seating  herself  in  a  row  with  people  who 
glanced  askance  at  her  evening  wrap  and  her 
general  magnificence. 

Poor  Mrs.  Edes  was  so  small  and  slight  that 
holding  up  magnificence  and  treading  the  deck 
with  her  high-heeled  shoes  was  physically  fa 
tiguing.  Had  she  been  of  a  large,  powerful 
physique,  had  her  body  matched  her  mind,  she 
might  not  have  felt  a  sense  of  angry  humilia 
tion.  As  it  was,  she  realised  that  for  her,  her, 
to  be  obliged  to  cross  the  ferry  was  an  insult 
at  the  hands  of  Providence.  But  the  tunnel 
was  no  better,  perhaps  worse, — that  plunged 
into  depths  below  the  waters,  like  one  in  a  pub 
lic  bath.  Anything  so  exquisite,  so  dainty,  so 
subtly  fine  and  powerful  as  herself,  should  not 
have  been  condemned  to  this.  She  should  have 
been  able  to  give  her  dinners  in  her  own  mag 
nificent  New  York  mansion.  As  it  was,  there 
was  nothing  for  her  except  to  dress  and  accept 
the  inevitable. 

It  was  as  bad  as  if  Napoleon  the  Great  had 
been  forced  to  ride  to  battle  on  a  trolley  car, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  63 

instead  of  being  booted  and  spurred  and 
astride  a  charger,  which  lifted  one  fore-leg  in  a 
fling  of  scorn.  Of  course  Wilbur  would  meet 
her,  and  they  would  take  a  taxicab,  but  even  a 
taxicab  seemed  rather  humiliating  to  her.  It 
should  have  been  her  own  private  motor  car. 
And  she  would  be  obliged  to  descend  the  stairs 
at  the  station  ungracefully,  one  hand  clutching 
nervously  at  the  tail  of  her  gorgeous  gown,  the 
other  at  her  evening  cloak.  It  was  absolutely 
impossible  for  so  slight  a  woman  to  descend 
stairs  with  dignity  and  grace,  holding  up  an 
evening  cloak  and  a  long  gown. 

However,  there  would  be  compensations 
later.  She  thought,  with  decided  pleasure,  of 
the  private  dining-room,  and  the  carefully 
planned  and  horribly  expensive  decorations, 
which  would  be  eminently  calculated  to  form  a 
suitable  background  for  herself.  The  flowers 
and  candle-shades  were  to  be  yellow,  and  she 
was  to  wear  her  yellow  chiffon  gown,  with 
touches  of  gold  embroidery,  a  gold  comb  set 
with  topazes  in  her  yellow  hair,  and  on  her 
breast  a  large,  gleaming  stone  which  was  a  yel 
low  diamond  of  very  considerable  value.  Wil- 


64  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

bur  had  carried  in  his  suit  case  her  yellow  satin 
slippers,  her  gold-beaded  fan,  and  the  queer  lit 
tle  wrap  of  leopard  skin  which  she  herself  had 
fashioned  from  a  rug  which  her  husband  had 
given  her.  She  had  much  skill  in  fashioning 
articles  for  her  own  adornment  as  a  cat  has  in 
burnishing  his  fur,  and  would  at  any  time  have 
sacrificed  the  curtains  or  furniture  covers,  had 
they  met  her  needs. 

She  would  not  be  obliged — crowning  disgrace 
• — to  carry  a  bag.  All  she  would  need  would  be 
her  little  case  for  tickets,  and  her  change  purse, 
and  her  evening  cloak  had  pockets.  The  even 
ing  cloak  lay  beside  the  yellow  chiffon  gown, 
carefully  disposed  on  the  bed,  which  had  a  lace 
counterpane  over  yellow  satin.  The  cloak  was 
of  a  creamy  cloth  lined  with  mink,  a  sumptuous 
affair,  and  she  had  a  tiny  mink  toque  with  one 
yellow  rose  as  head  covering. 

She  glanced  approvingly  at  the  rich  attire 
spread  upon  the  bed,  and  then  thought  again  of 
the  dreadful  ferry,  and  her  undignified  hop 
across  the  dirty  station  to  the  boat.  She  longed 
for  the  days  of  sedan  chairs,  for  anything 
rather  than  this.  She  was  an  exquisite  lady 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  65 

caught  in  the  toils  of  modern  cheap  progress 
toward  all  her  pleasures  and  profits.  She  did 
not  belong  in  a  democratic  country  at  all  unless 
she  had  millions.  She  was  out  of  place,  as 
much  out  of  place  as  a  splendid  Angora  in  an 
alley.  Fairbridge  to  her  instincts  was  as  an 
alley;  yet  since  it  was  her  alley,  she  had  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  Had  she  not  made  the  best 
of  it,  exalted  it,  magnified  it,  she  would  have 
gone  mad.  Wherefore  the  triumph  of  Mrs. 
Slade  in  presenting  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy  Snyder 
seemed  to  her  like  an  affair  of  moment.  For 
lack  of  something  greater  to  hate  and  rival,  she 
hated  and  rivalled  Mrs.  Slade.  For  lack  of 
something  big  over  which  to  reign,  she  wished 
to  reign  over  Fairbridge  and  the  Zenith  Club. 
Mrs.  Slade 's  perfectly-matched  drawing-room 
took  on  the  semblance  of  a  throne-room,  in 
which  she  had  seen  herself  usurped. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  young  clergyman, 
even  as  he  was  thinking  of  her.  She  knew  per 
fectly  well  how  he  had  been  trapped,  but  she 
failed  to  see  the  slightest  humour  in  it.  She 
had  no  sense  of  humour.  She  saw  only  the 
additional  triumph  of  Mrs.  Slade  in  securing 


66  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

this  rather  remarkable  man  at  the  Zenith  Club, 
something  which  she  herself  had  never  been 
able  to  do.  Von  Rosen's  face  came  before  her. 
She  considered  it  a  handsome  face,  but  no 
man's  face  could  disturb  her.  She  held  her 
virtue  with  as  nervous  a  clutch  as  she  held  up 
her  fine  gown.  To  soil  either  would  be  injudi 
cious,  impolitic,  and  she  never  desired  the  in 
judicious  and  impolitic. 

"He  is  a  handsome  man,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  "an  aristocratic-looking  man."  Then  the 
telephone  bell  close  beside  her  divan  rang,  and 
she  took  up  the  receiver  carefully,  not  moving 
her  head,  sat  up,  and  put  her  delicate  lips  to  the 
speaking  tube. 

"Hello,"  said  a  voice,  and  she  recognised  it 
as  Von  Rosen's  although  it  had  an  agitated, 
nervous  ring  which  was  foreign  to  it. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  in  reply,  and  the 
voice  responded  with  volubility,  "A  girl,  a 
young  Syrian  girl,  is  at  my  home.  She  is  in  a 
swoon  or  something.  We  cannot  revive  her. 
Is  the  doctor  at  home?  Tell  him  to  hurry  over, 
please.  I  am  Mr.  von  Rosen.  Tell  him  to 
hurry.  She  may  be  dead." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  67 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  von  Rosen," 
said  Mrs.  Edes'  thin  voice,  as  thin  and  silvery 
as  a  reed.  "You  are  speaking  to  Mrs.  Wilbur 
Edes.  My  telephone  number  is  5R.  You 
doubtless  want  Doctor  Sturtevant.  His  num 
ber  is  51M." 

"Oh,  pardon,"  cried  the  voice  over  the  tele 
phone.  "Sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,  Mrs. 
Edes,  I  mistook — " 

The  voice  trailed  into  nothingness.  There 
was  a  sharp  ring.  Mrs.  Edes  hung  up  her  re 
ceiver.  She  thought  slowly  that  it  was  a 
strange  circumstance  that  Mr.  von  Rosen 
should  have  a  fainting  or  dead  young  Syrian 
girl  in  his  house.  Then  she  rose  from  the  di 
van,  holding  her  head  very  stiffly,  and  began  to 
dress.  She  had  just  enough  time  to  dress  lei 
surely  and  catch  the  train.  She  called  on  one 
of  the  two  maids  to  assist  her  and  was  quite 
equipped,  even  to  the  little  mink  toque,  fas 
tened  very  carefully  on  her  shining  head,  when 
there  was  a  soft  push  at  the  door,  and  her  twin 
daughters,  Maida  and  Adelaide,  entered. 
They  were  eight  years  old,  but  looked  younger. 
They  were  almost  exactly  alike  as  to  small, 


68  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

pretty  features  and  pale  blond  colouring. 
Maida  scowled  a  little,  and  Adelaide  did  not, 
and  people  distinguished  them  by  that  when  in 
doubt. 

They  stood  and  stared  at  their  mother  with 
a  curious  expression  on  their  sharp,  delicate 
little  faces.  It  was  not  exactly  admiration,  it 
was  not  wonder,  nor  envy,  nor  affection,  yet 
tinctured  by  all. 

Mrs.  Edes  looked  at  them.  "Maida,"  said 
she,  "do  not  wear  that  blue  hair-ribbon  again. 
It  is  soiled.  Have  you  had  your  dinners!" 

"Yes,  mamma,"  responded  first  one,  then  the 
other,  Maida  with  the  frown  being  slightly  in 
the  lead. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Mrs. 
Edes,  and  the  two  little  girls  stood  carefully 
aside  to  allow  her  to  pass. 

"Good  night,  children,"  said  Mrs.  Edes  with 
out  turning  her  mink-crowned  head.  The  lit 
tle  girls  watched  the  last  yellow  swirl  of  their 
mother's  skirts,  disappearing  around  the  stair- 
landing,  then  Adelaide  spoke. 

"I  mean  to  wear  red,  myself,  when  I'm  grown 
up,"  said  she. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  69 

"Ho,  just  because  Jim  Carr  likes  red,"  re 
torted  Maida.  "As  for  me,  I  mean  to  have  a 
gown  just  like  hers,  only  a  little  deeper  shade 
of  yellow." 

Adelaide  laughed,  an  unpleasantly  snarling 
little  laugh.  "Ho,"  said  she,  "just  because 
Val  Thomas  likes  yellow." 

Then  the  coloured  maid,  Emma,  who  was 
cross  because  Mrs.  Edes'  evening  out  had  de 
prived  her  of  her  own,  and  had  been  ruthlessly 
hanging  her  mistress's  gown  which  she  had 
worn  to  the  club  in  a  wad  on  a  closet  hook,  dis 
regarding  its  perfumed  hanger,  turned  upon 
them. 

"Heah,  ye  chillun,"  said  she,  "your  ma  sid 
for  you  to  go  to  baid." 

Each  little  girl  had  her  white  bed  with  a  can 
opy  of  pink  silk  in  a  charming  room.  There 
were  garlands  of  rosebuds  on  the  wallpaper 
and  the  furniture  was  covered  with  rosebud 
chintz. 

While  their  mother  was  indignantly  sailing 
across  the  North  Eiver,  her  daughters  lay 
awake,  building  air-castles  about  themselves 
and  their  boy-lovers,  which  fevered  their  im- 


70  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

aginations,  and  aged  them  horribly  in  a  spir 
itual  sense. 

"Amy  White's  mother  plays  dominoes  with 
her  every  evening,"  Maida  remarked.  Her 
voice  sounded  incredibly  old,  full  of  faint  de 
risiveness  and  satire,  but  absolutely  non-com 
plaining. 

"Amy  White's  mother  would  look  awfully 
funny  in  a  gown  like  Mamma's,"  said  Adel 
aide. 

"I  suppose  that  is  why  she  plays  dominoes 
with  Amy,"  said  Maida  in  her  old  voice. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  any  more,  Maida,  I  want  to 
go  to  sleep,"  said  Adelaide  pettishly,  but  she 
was  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  She  wished  to  re 
turn  to  the  air-castle  in  which  she  had  been 
having  sweet  converse  with  Jim  Carr.  This 
air-castle  was  the  abode  of  innocence,  but  it 
was  not  yet  time  for  its  building  at  all.  It 
was  such  a  little  childish  creature  who  lay 
curled  up  under  the  coverlid  strewn  with  rose 
buds  that  the  gates  of  any  air-castle  of  life  and 
love,  and  knowledge,  however  innocent  and  ig 
norant,  should  have  been  barred  against  her, 
perhaps  with  dominoes. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  71 

However,  she  entered  in,  her  soft  cheeks 
burning,  and  her  pulse  tingling,  and  saw  the 
strange  light  through  its  fairy  windows,  and 
her  sister  also  entered  her  air-castle,  and  all  the 
time  their  mother  was  sailing  across  the  North 
River  toward  the  pier  where  her  husband 
waited.  She  kept  one  gloved  hand  upon  the 
fold  of  her  gown,  ready  to  clutch  it  effectually 
clear  of  the  dirty  deck  when  the  pier  was 
reached.  When  she  was  in  the  taxicab  with 
Wilbur,  she  thought  again  of  Von  Rosen. 
"Dominie  von  Rosen  made  a  mistake,"  said 
she,  "and  called  up  the  wrong  number.  He 
wanted  Doctor  Sturtevant,  and  he  got  me." 
Then  she  repeated  the  message.  "What  do 
you  suppose  he  was  doing  with  a  fainting  Syr 
ian  girl  in  his  house?"  she  ended. 

A  chuckle  shook  the  dark  bulk  in  its  fur 
lined  coat  at  her  side.  "The  question  is  why 
the  Syrian  girl  chose  Von  Rosen's  house  to 
faint  in,"  said  he  lightly. 

"Oh,  don't  be  funny,  Wilbur,'5  said  Mar 
garet.  "Have  you  seen  the  dining-room? 
How  does  it  look?" 

"I  thought  it  beautiful,  and  I  am  sure  you 


72          THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 


like  it,"  said  Wilbur  Edes  in  the  chastened 
tone  which  he  commonly  used  toward  his  wife. 
He  had  learned  long  ago  that  facetiousness 
displeased  her,  and  he  lived  only  to  please  her, 
aside  from  his  interest  in  his  profession.  Poor 
"Wilbur  Edes  thought  his  wife  very  wonderful, 
and  watched  with  delight  the  hats  doffed  when 
she  entered  the  hotel  lift  like  a  little  beruffled 
yellow  canary.  He  wished  those  men  could  see 
her  later,  when  the  canary  resemblance  had  al 
together  ceased,  when  she  would  look  tall  and 
slender  and  lithe  in  her  clinging  yellow  gown 
with  the  great  yellow  stone  gleaming  in  her 
corsage. 

For  some  reason  Margaret  Edes  held  her 
husband's  admiration  with  a  more  certain  ten 
ure  because  she  could  not  be  graceful  when 
weighed  down  with  finery.  The  charm  of  her 
return  to  grace  was  a  never-ending  surprise. 
Wilbur  Edes  loved  his  wife  more  comfortably 
than  he  loved  his  children.  He  loved  them  a 
little  uneasily.  They  were  unknown  elements 
to  him,  and  he  sometimes  wished  that  he  had 
more  time  at  home,  to  get  them  firmly  fixed  in 
his  comprehension.  Without  the  slightest  con- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  73 

demnation  of  his  wife,  he  had  never  regarded 
her  as  a  woman  in  whom  the  maternal  was  a 
distinguishing  feature.  He  saw  with  approba 
tion  the  charming  externals  with  which  she  sur 
rounded  their  offspring.  It  was  a  gratification 
to  him  to  be  quite  sure  that  Maida's  hair  rib 
bon  would  always  be  fresh  and  tied  perkily, 
and  that  Adelaide  would  be  full  of  dainty  little 
gestures  copied  from  her  mother,  but  he  had 
some  doubts  as  to  whether  his  wonderful  Mar 
garet  might  not  be  too  perfect  in  herself,  and 
too  engrossed  with  the  duties  pertaining  to  per 
fection  to  be  quite  the  proper  manager  of  im 
perfection  and  immaturity  represented  by 
childhood. 

"How  did  you  leave  the  children?"  he  in 
quired  when  they  were  in  their  bedroom  at  the 
hotel,  and  he  was  fitting  the  yellow  satin  slip 
pers  to  his  wife's  slender  silk  shod  feet. 

"The  children  were  as  well  as  usual.  I  told 
Emma  to  put  them  to  bed.  Do  you  think  the 
orchids  in  the  dining-room  are  the  right  shade, 
Wilter?" 

"I  am  quite  sure.  I  am  glad  that  you  told 
Emma  to  put  them  to  bed." 


74  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"I  always  do.  Mrs.  George  B.  Slade  is  most 
unpleasantly  puffed  up." 

"Why!" 

"Oh,  because  she  got  Mrs.  Sarah  Joy  Snyder 
to  speak  to  the  club." 

"Did  she  do  her  stunt  well?" 

"Well  enough.  Mrs.  Slade  was  so  pleased, 
it  was  really  offensive." 

Wilbur  Edes  had  an  inspiration.  "The 
Fay-Wymans,"  said  he  (the  Fay-Wymans 
were  the  principal  guests  of  their  dinner 
party),  "know  a  lot  of  theatrical  people.  I  will 
see  if  I  can't  get  them  to  induce  somebody,  say 
Lydia  Greenway,  to  run  out  some  day;  I  sup 
pose  it  would  have  to  be  later  on,  just  after  the 
season,  and  do  a  stunt  at  the  club." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  simply  charming,"  cried 
Margaret,  "and  I  would  rather  have  it  in  the 
spring,  because  everything  looks  so  much  pret 
tier.  But  don't  you  think  it  will  be  impossible, 
Wilbur?" 

"Not  with  money  as  an  inducement."  Wil 
bur  had  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  an  un 
usually  large  fee  which  was  sure  to  be  his  own 
before  that  future  club  meeting,  and  he  could 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  75 

see  no  better  employment  for  it  than  to  enable 
his  adored  wife  to  outshine  Mrs.  George  B. 
Slade.  When  in  New  York  engaged  in  his  pro 
fession,  Wilbur  Edes  was  entirely  free  from  the 
vortex  of  Fairbridge,  but  his  wife,  with  its  ter 
rible  eddies  still  agitating  her  garments,  could 
suck  him  therein,  even  in  the  great  city.  He 
was  very  susceptible  to  her  influence. 

Margaret  Edes  beamed  at  her  husband  as  he 
rose.  ' '  That  will  make  Marion  Slade  furious, ' * 
she  said.  She  extended  her  feet.  "  Pretty 
slippers,  aren't  they,  Wilbur f " 

"Charming,  my  dear." 

Margaret  was  so  pleased  that  she  tried  to  do 
something  very  amiable. 

"That  was  funny,  I  mean  what  you  said 
about  the  Syrian  girl  at  the  Dominie 's,"  she 
volunteered,  and  laughed,  without  making  a 
crease  in  her  fair  little  face.  She  was  really 
adorable,  far  more  than  pretty,  leaning  bacK 
with  one  slender,  yellow-draped  leg  crossed 
over  the  other,  revealing  the  glittering  slippers 
and  one  silken  ankle. 

"It  does  sound  somewhat  queer,  a  Syrian 
girl  fainting  in  the  Dominie's  house,"  said 


76          THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

Wilbur.  "She  could  not  have  found  a  house 
where  her  sex,  of  any  nationality,  are  in  less 
repute." 

"Then  you  don't  think  that  Alice  Men- 
don — ?"  There  was  a  faint  note  of  jealousy 
in  Margaret's  voice,  although  she  herself  had 
not  the  slightest  interest  in  Dominie  von  Bo- 
sen  or  any  man,  except  her  husband;  and  in 
him  only  because  he  was  her  husband.  As  thej 
husband  of  her  wonderful  self,  he  acquired  a 
certain  claim  to  respect,  even  affection,  such  as 
she  had  to  bestow. 

"I  don't  think  Alice  Mendon  would  take  up 
with  the  Dominie,  if  he  would  with  her,"  re 
sponded  Wilbur  Edes  hastily.  Margaret  did 
not  understand  his  way  of  speaking,  but  just 
then  she  looked  at  herself  in  an  opposite  mir 
ror,  and  pulled  down  one  side  of  her  blond 
pompadour  a  bit,  which  softened  her  face,  and 
added  to  its  allurement.  The  truth  was  Wil 
bur  Edes,  before  he  met  Margaret,  had  pro 
posed  to  Alice  Mendon.  Alice  had  never  told, 
and  he  had  not,  consequently  Margaret  did  not 
know.  Had  she  known  it  would  have  made  no 
difference,  since  she  could  not  imagine  any 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  77 

man  preferring  Alice  to  herself.  All  her 
jealousy  was  based  upon  the  facts  of  her  supe 
rior  height,  and  ability  to  carry  herself  well, 
where  she  knew  herself  under  many  circum 
stances  about  as  graceful  as  an  Angora  cat 
walking  upon  her  hind  legs.  She  was  abso 
lutely  sure  of  her  husband.  The  episode  with 
Alice  had  occurred  before  he  had  ever  even  seen 
Herself.  She  smiled  radiantly  upon  him  as 
she  arose.  She  was  conscious  of  no  affection 
for  her  husband,  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  de 
sire  to  show  appreciation,  and  to  display  radi 
ance  for  his  delectation. 

"It  is  charming  of  you  to  think  of  getting 
Lydia  Greenway  to  read,  you  dear  old  man," 
said  she.  Wilbur  beamed. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  can  not  be  sure,  that  is 
not  absolutely  sure,  but  if  it  is  to  be  done,  I 
will  manage  it,"  said  he. 

It  was  at  this  very  time,  for  radically  differ 
ent  notes  sound  at  the  same  time  in  the  har 
mony  or  discord  of  life,  that  Von  Rosen's 
housekeeper,  Jane  Riggs,  stood  before  him  with 
that  crackling  white  apron  swept  over  her  face. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Von  Rosen,  and  he  real- 


78          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

ised  that  his  lips  were  stiff,  and  his  voice 
sounded  strange. 

A  strange  harsh  sob  came  from  behind  the 
apron.  "She  was  all  bent  to  one  side  with 
that  heavy  suit  case,  as  heavy  as  lead,  for  I 
hefted  it,"  said  Jane  Riggs,  "and  she  couldn't 
have  been  more  than  fifteen.  Them  outlandish 
girls  get  married  awful  young. " 

"What  is  it!" 

"And  there  was  poor  Jack  lickin'  her  hands, 
and  him  a  dog  everybody  is  so  scared  of,  and 
she  a  sinkin'  down  in  a  heap  on  my  kitchen 
floor." 

"What  is  it?" 

"She  has  passed  away,"  answered  Jane 
Riggs,  ' *  and — the  baby  is  a  boy,  and  no  bigger 
than  the  cat,  not  near  as  big  as  the  cat  when  I 
come  to  look  at  him,  and  I  put  some  of  my  old 
flannels  and  my  shimmy  on  him,  and  Doctor 
Sturtevant  has  got  him  in  my  darning  basket, 
all  lined  with  newspapers,  the  New  York  Sun, 
and  the  Times  and  hot  water  bottles,  and  it's 
all  happened  in  the  best  chamber,  and  I  call  it 
pretty  goings  on." 

Jane  Riggs  gave  vent  to  discordant  sobs. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  79 

Her  apron  crackled.  Von  Rosen  took  hold  of 
her  shoulders.  "Go  straight  back  up  there," 
he  ordered. 

"Why  couldn't  she  have  gone  in  and  fainted 
away  somewhere  where  there  was  more  women 
than  one,"  said  Jane  Riggs.  "Doctor  Sturte- 
vant,  he  sent  me  down  for  more  newspapers." 

"Take  these,  and  go  back  at  once,"  said  Von 
Rosen,  and  he  gathered  up  the  night  papers  in 
a  crumpled  heap  and  thrust  them  upon  the  wo 
man. 

"He  said  you  had  better  telephone  for  Mrs. 
Bestwick,"  said  Jane.  Mrs.  Bestwick  was  the 
resident  nurse  of  Fairbridge.  Von  Rosen 
sprang  to  the  telephone,  but  he  could  get  no  re 
sponse  whatever  from  the  Central  office,  prob 
ably  on  account  of  the  ice-coated  wires. 

He  sat  down  disconsolately,  and  the  cat  leapt 
upon  his  knees,  but  he  pushed  him  away  impa 
tiently,  to  be  surveyed  in  consequence  by  those 
topaz  eyes  with  a  regal  effect  of  injury,  and 
astonishment.  Von  Rosen  listened.  He  won 
dered  if  he  heard,  or  imagined  that  he  heard,  a 
plaintive  little  wail.  The  dog  snuggled  close 
to  him,  and  he  felt  a  warm  tongue  lap.  Von 


80  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Eosen  patted  the  dog's  head.  Here  was  sym 
pathy.  The  cat's  leap  into  his  lap  had  been 
purely  selfish.  Von  Rosen  listened.  He  got 
up,  and  tried  to  telephone  again,  but  got  no 
response  from  Central.  He  hung  up  the  re 
ceiver  emphatically  and  sat  down  again.  The 
dog  again  came  close,  and  he  patted  the  humble 
loving  head.  Von  Rosen  listened  again,  and 
again  could  not  be  sure  whether  he  actually 
heard  or  imagined  that  he  heard,  the  feeblest, 
most  helpless  cry  ever  lifted  up  from  this  earth, 
that  of  a  miserable  new  born  baby  with  its 
uncertain  future  reaching  before  it  and  all 
the  sins  of  its  ancertors  upon  its  devoted 
head. 

When  at  last  the  door  opened  and  Doctor 
Sturtevant  entered,  he  was  certain.  That  poor 
little  atom  of  humanity  upstairs  was  lifting  up 
its  voice  of  feeble  rage  and  woe  because  of  its 
entrance  into  existence.  Sturtevant  had  an 
oddly  apologetic  look.  "I  assure  you  I  am 
sorry,  my  dear  fellow — "  he  began. 

"Is  the  poor  little  beggar  going  to  live?" 
asked  Von  Rosen. 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  so,  judging  from  the  pres- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  81 

ent  outlook,"  replied  the  doctor  still  apologeti 
cally. 

"I  could  not  get  Mrs.  Bestwick,"  said  Von 
Eosen  anxiously.  "I  think  the  telephone  is  out 
of  commission,  on  account  of  the  ice." 

"  Never  mind  that.  Your  housekeeper  is  a 
jewel,  and  I  will  get  Mrs.  Bestwick  on  my  way 
home.  I  say,  Von  Eosen — " 

Von  Eosen  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Oh,  well,  never  mind;  I  really  must  be  off 
now,"  said  the  doctor  hurriedly.  "I  will  get 
Mrs.  Bestwick  here  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
think — the  child  will  have  to  be  kept  here  for  a 
short  time  anyway,  considering  the  weather, 
and  everything." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Von  Eosen. 

After  the  doctor  had  gone,  he  went  out  in 
the  kitchen.  He  had  had  no  dinner.  Jane 
Eiggs,  who  had  very  acute  hearing,  came  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  spoke  in  a  muffled  tone, 
muffled  as  Von  Eosen  knew  because  of  the  pres 
ence  of  death  and  life  in  the  house.  "The 
roast  is  in  the  oven,  Mr.  von  Eosen,"  said  she, 
"I  certainly  hope  it  isn't  too  dry,  and  the  soup 
is  in  the  kettle,  and  the  vegetables  are  all  ready 


82  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

to  dish  up.  Everything  is  ready  except  the 
coffee." 

" You  know  I  can  make  that,"  called  Von 
Eosen  in  alarm.  *  'Don't  think  of  coming 
down." 

Von  Eosen  could  make  very  good  coffee.  It 
was  an  accomplishment  of  his  college  days. 
He  made  some  now.  He  felt  the  need  of  it. 
Then  he  handily  served  the  very  excellent  din 
ner,  and  sat  down  at  his  solitary  dining  tahle. 
As  he  ate  his  soup,  he  glanced  across  the  table, 
and  a  hlush  like  that  of  a  girl  overspread  his 
dark  face.  He  had  a  vision  of  a  high  chair, 
and  a  child  installed  therein  with  the  custom 
ary  hib  and  spoon.  It  was  a  singular  circum 
stance,  but  everything  in  life  moves  in  se 
quences,  and  that  poor  Syrian  child  upstairs, 
in  her  dire  extremity,  was  furnishing  a  se 
quence  in  the  young  man's  life,  before  she  went 
out  of  it.  Her  stimulation  of  his  sympathy 
and  imagination  was  to  change  the  whole 
course  of  his  existence. 

Meanwhile,  Doctor  Sturtevant  was  having  a 
rather  strenuous  argument  with  his  wife,  who 
for  once  stood  against  him.  She  had  her  not- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  83 

to-be-silenced  personal  note.  She  had  a  hor 
ror  of  the  alien  and  unusual.  All  her  life  she 
had  walked  her  chalk-line,  and  anything  out 
side  savoured  of  the  mysterious,  and  terrible. 
She  was  Anglo-Saxon.  She  was  what  her  an 
cestresses  had  been  for  generations.  The 
strain  was  unchanged,  and  had  become  so  tense 
and  narrow  that  it  was  almost  fathomless. 
Mrs.  Sturtevant,  good  and  benevolent  on 
her  chalk-line,  was  involuntarily  a  bigot. 
She  looked  at  Chinese  laundry  men,  poor 
little  yellow  figures,  shuffling  about  with  bags 
of  soiled  linen,  with  thrills  of  recoil.  She 
would  not  have  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  for 
she  came  of  a  race  which  favoured  abolition, 
but  nothing  could  have  induced  her  to  have  a 
coloured  girl  in  her  kitchen.  Her  imagina 
tions  and  prejudices  were  stained  as  white  as 
her  skin.  There  was  a  lone  man  living  on  the 
outskirts  of  Fairbridge,  in  a  little  shack  built 
by  himself  in  the  woods,  who  was  said  to  have 
Indian  blood  in  his  veins,  and  Mrs.  Sturtevant 
never  saw  him  without  that  awful  thrill  of  re 
coil.  "When  the  little  Orientals,  men  or  women, 
swayed  sidewise  and  bent  with  their  cheap 


84  THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

suitcases  filled  with  Eastern  handiwork,  came  to 
the  door,  she  did  not  draw  a  long  breath  until 
she  had  watched  them  out  of  sight  down  the 
street.  It  made  no  difference  to  her  that  they 
might  be  Christians,  that  they  might  have  suf 
fered  persecution  in  their  own  land  and  sought 
our  doorless  entrances  of  hospitality;  she  still 
realised  her  own  aloofness  from  them,  or  rather 
theirs  from  her.  They  had  entered  existence 
entirely  outside  her  chalk-line.  She  and  they 
walked  on  parallels  which  to  all  eternity  could 
never  meet. 

It  therefore  came  to  pass  that,  although  she 
had  in  the  secret  depths  of  her  being  bemoaned 
her  childlessness,  and  had  been  conscious  of 
yearnings  and  longings  which  were  agonies, 
when  Doctor  Sturtevant,  after  the  poor  young 
unknown  mother  had  been  laid  away  in  the 
Fairbridge  cemetery,  proposed  that  they  should 
adopt  the  bereft  little  one,  she  rebelled. 

"If  he  were  a  white  baby,  I  wouldn't  object 
that  I  know  of,"  said  she,  "but  I  can't  have 
this  kind.  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  it,  Ed 
ward." 

"But,  Maria,  the  child  is  white.    He  may  not 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  85 

be  European,  but  he  is  white.  That  is,  while  of 
course  he  has  a  dark  complexion  and  dark  eyes 
and  hair,  he  is  as  white,  in  a  way,  as  any  child 
in  Fairbridge,  and  he  will  be  a  beautiful  boy. 
Moreover,  we  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  he  was  born  in  wedlock.  There  was  a  ring 
on  a  poor  string  of  a  ribbon  on  the  mother's 
neck,  and  there  was  a  fragment  of  a  letter  which 
Von  Rosen  managed  to  make  out.  He  thinks 
that  the  poor  child  was  married  to  another 
child  of  her  own  race.  The  boy  is  all  right  and 
he  will  be  a  fine  little  fellow." 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  said  Maria  Sturtevant. 
"I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  adopt  a  baby, 
that  belonged  to  that  kind  of  people.  I  simply 
can  not,  Edward." 

Sturtevant  gave  up  the  matter  for  the  time 
being.  The  baby  remained  at  Von  Rosen's 
under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Bestwick,  and  Jane 
Riggs,  but  when  it  was  a  month  old,  the  doctor 
persuaded  his  wife  to  go  over  and  see  it. 
Maria  Sturtevant  gazed  at  the  tiny  scrap  of 
humanity  curled  up  in  Jane  Riggs'  darning 
basket,  the  old-young  face  creased  as  softly  as 
a  rosebud,  with  none  of  its  beauty,  but  with  a 


86  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

compelling  charm.  She  watched  the  weak  mo 
tion  of  the  infinitesimal  legs  and  arms  beneath 
the  soft  smother  of  wrappings,  and  her  heart 
pained  her  with  longing,  but  she  remained  firm. 

"It  is  no  use,  Edward,"  she  said,  when  they 
had  returned  to  Von  Eosen's  study.  "I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  to  adopt  a  baby  coming  from 
such  queer  people."  Then  she  was  confronted 
by  a  stare  of  blank  astonishment  from  Von 
Eosen,  and  also  from  Jane  Eiggs. 

Jane  Eiggs  spoke  with  open  hostility.  "I 
don't  know  that  anybody  has  asked  anybody  to 
adopt  our  baby,"  said  she. 

Von  Eosen  laughed,  but  he  also  blushed.  He 
spoke  rather  stammeringly.  "Well,  Sturte- 
vant,"  said  he,  "the  fact  is,  Jane  and  I  have 
talked  it  over,  and  she  thinks  she  can  manage, 
and  he  seems  a  bright  little  chap,  and — I  have 
about  made  up  my  mind  to  keep  him  myself." 

"He  is  going  to  be  baptised  as  soon  as  he  is 
big  enough  to  be  taken  out  of  my  darning 
basket,"  said  Jane  Eiggs  with  defiance,  but 
Mrs.  Sturtevant  regarded  her  with  relief. 

"I  dare  say  he  will  be  a  real  comfort  to 
you,"  she  said,  "even  if  he  does  come  from 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  87 

such  queer  stock."    Her  husband  looted  at 
Von  Rosen  and  whistled  under  his  breath. 

"People  will  talk/'  he  said  aside. 

"Let  them,"  returned  Von  Rosen.  He  was 
experiencing  a  strange  new  joy  of  possession, 
which  no  possibility  of  ridicule  could  daunt. 
However,  his  joy  was  of  short  duration.  The 
baby  was  a  little  over  three  months  old,  and 
had  been  promoted  to  a  crib,  and  a  perambu 
lator,  had  been  the  unconscious  recipient  of 
many  gifts  from  the  women  of  Von  Rosen's 
parish,  and  of  many  calls  from  admiring  little 
girls.  Jane  had  scented  the  danger.  She 
came  home  from  marketing  one  morning,  quite 
pale,  and  could  hardly  speak  when  she  entered 
Von  Rosen's  study. 

"There's  an  outlandish  young  man  around 
here,"  said  she,  "and  you  had  better  keep  that 
baby  close." 

Von  Rosen  laughed.  "Those  people  are  al 
ways  about,"  he  said.  "You  have  no  reason 
to  be  nervous,  Jane.  There  is  hardly  a  chance 
he  has  anything  to  do  with  the  baby,  and  in  any 
case,  he  would  not  be  likely  to  burden  himself 
with  the  care  of  it." 


68  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

" Don't  you  be  too  sure,"  said  Jane  stoutly, 
"a  baby  like  that!" 

Jane,  much  against  her  wishes,  was  obliged 
to  go  out  that  afternoon,  and  Von  Eosen  was 
left  alone  with  the  baby  with  the  exception  of 
a  little  nurse  girl  who  had  taken  the  place  of 
Mrs.  Bestwick.  Then  it  was  that  the  Syrian 
man,  he  was  no  more  than  a  boy,  came.  Von 
Eosen  did  not  at  first  suspect.  The  Syrian 
spoke  very  good  English,  and  he  was  a  Chris 
tian.  So  he  told  Von  Eosen.  Then  he  also 
told  him  that  the  dead  girl  had  been  his  wife, 
and  produced  letters  signed  with  the  name 
which  those  in  her  possession  had  borne.  Von 
Eosen  was  convinced.  There  was  something 
about  the  boy  with  his  haughty,  almost  sullen, 
oriental  manner  which  bore  the  stamp  of  truth. 
However,  when  he  demanded  only  the  suit-case 
which  his  dead  wife  had  brought  when  she 
came  to  the  house,  Von  Eosen  was  relieved. 
He  produced  it  at  once,  and  his  wonder  and 
disgust  mounted  to  fever  heat,  when  that  East 
ern  boy  proceeded  to  take  out  carefully  the 
gauds  of  feminine  handiwork  which  it  con 
tained,  and  press  them  upon  Von  Eosen  at  ex- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  89 

orbitant  prices.  Von  Eosen  was  more  incensed 
than  he  often  permitted  himself  to  be.  He 
ordered  the  boy  from  the  house,  and  he  de 
parted  with  strong  oaths,  and  veiled  and  intri 
cate  threats  after  the  manner  of  his  subtle 
race,  and  when  Jane  Biggs  came  home,  Yon 
Eosen  told  her. 

"I  firmly  believe  the  young  rascal  was  that 
poor  girl's  husband,  and  the  boy's  father,"  he 
said. 

"Didn't  he  ask  to  have  the  baby?" 

"Never  mentioned  such  a  thing.  All  he 
wanted  was  the  article  of  value  which  the  poor 
girl  left  here." 

Jane  Eiggs  also  looked  relieved.  "Outland 
ish  people  are  queer,"  she  said. 

But  the  next  morning  she  rushed  into  Von 
Eosen 's  room  when  he  had  barely  finished 
dressing,  sobbing  aloud  like  a  child,  her  face 
rigidly  convulsed  with  grief,  and  her  hands 
waving  frantically  with  no  effort  to  conceal  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  little  Syrian  baby  had  disappeared.  No 
body  had  reckoned  with  the  soft  guile  of  a  race 
as  supple  and  silent  as  to  their  real  intentions 
as  cats.  There  was  a  verandah  column  wound 
with  a  massive  wistaria  vine  near  the  window 
of  the  baby's  room.  The  little  nurse  girl  went 
home  every  night,  and  Jane  Eiggs  was  a  heavy 
sleeper.  When  she  had  awakened,  her  first 
glance  had  been  into  the  baby's  crib.  Then  she 
sprang,  and  searched  with  hungry  hands.  The 
little  softly  indented  nest  was  not  warm,  the 
child  had  been  gone  for  some  hours,  probably 
had  been  taken  during  the  first  and  soundest 
sleep  of  the  household.  Jane's  purse,  and  her 
gold  breast  pin,  had  incidentally  been  taken 
also.  When  she  gave  the  alarm  to  Von  Eosen, 
a  sullen,  handsome  Syrian  boy  was  trudging 
upon  an  unfrequented  road,  which  led  circuit- 
ously  to  the  City,  and  he  carried  a  suit-case, 
but  it  was  held  apart,  by  some  of  the  Eastern 
embroideries  used  as  wedges,  before  strapping, 

90 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  91 

and  from  that  came  the  querulous  wail  of  a; 
baby  squirming  uncomfortably  upon  drawn 
work  centre  pieces,  and  crepe  kimonas.  Now 
and  then  the  boy  stopped  and  spoke  to  the  baby 
in  a  lovely  gentle  voice.  He  promised  it  food, 
and  shelter  soon  in  his  own  soft  tongue.  He 
was  carrying  it  to  his  wife's  mother,  and  sullen 
as  he  looked  and  was,  and  thief  as  he  was,  love 
for  his  own  swayed  him,  and  made  him  deter 
mined  to  hold  it  fast.  Von  Rosen  made  all  pos 
sible  inquiries.  He  employed  detectives  but  he 
never  obtained  the  least  clue  to  the  where 
abouts  of  the  little  child.  He,  however,  al 
though  he  grieved  absurdly,  almost  as  absurdly 
as  Jane,  had  a  curious  sense  of  joy  over  the 
whole.  Life  in  Fairbridge  had,  before  birth 
and  death  entered  his  home,  been  so  monoto 
nous,  that  he  was  almost  stupefied.  Here  was 
a  thread  of  vital  gold  and  flame,  although  it 
had  brought  pain  with  it.  When  Doctor  Stur- 
tevant  condoled  with  him,  he  met  with  an  un 
expected  response.  "I  feel  for  you,  old  man. 
It  was  a  mighty  unfortunate  thing  that  it  hap 
pened  in  your  house,  now  that  this  has  come 
of  it,"  he  said. 


92  THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

"I  am  very  glad  it  happened,  whatever  came 
of  it,"  said  Von  Eosen.  "It  is  something  to 
have  had  in  my  life.  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
it." 

Fairbridge  people,  who  were  on  the  whole  a 
good-natured  set,  were  very  sympathetic,  es 
pecially  the  women.  Bessy  Dicky  shed  tears 
when  talking  to  Mrs.  Sturtevant  about  the  dis 
appearance  of  the  baby.  Mrs.  Sturtevant  was 
not  very  responsive. 

"It  may  be  all  for  the  best,"  she  said. 
"Nobody  can  tell  how  that  child  would  have 
turned  out.  He  might  have  ended  by  killing 
Mr.  von  Eosen."  Then  she  added  with  a  sigh 
that  she  hoped  his  poor  mother  had  been  mar 
ried. 

"Why,  of  course  she  was  since  there  was  a 
baby,"  said  Bessy  Dicky.  Then  she  rose  has 
tily  with  a  blush  because  Doctor  Sturtevant 's 
motor  could  be  heard,  and  took  her  leave. 

Doctor  Sturtevant  had  just  returned  from 
a  call  upon  Margaret  Edes,  who  had  ex 
perienced  a  very  severe  disappointment,  com 
ing  as  it  did  after  another  very  successful  meet 
ing  of  the  Zenith  Club  at  Daisy  Shaw's,  who 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  93 

had  most  unexpectedly  provided  a  second 
cousin  who  recited  monologues  wonderfully. 
Wilbur  had  failed  in  his  attempt  to  secure 
Lydia  Greenway  for  Margaret's  star-feature. 
The  actress  had  promised,  but  had  been  sud 
denly  attacked  with  a  very  severe  cold  which 
had  obliged  her  to  sail  for  Europe  a  week  ear 
lier  than  she  had  planned.  Margaret  had  been 
quite  ill,  but  Doctor  Sturtevant  gave  her  pain 
pellets  with  the  result  that  late  in  the  after 
noon  she  sat  on  her  verandah  in  a  fluffy  white 
tea  gown,  and  then  it  was  that  little  Annie 
Eustace  came  across  the  street,  and  sat  with 
her.  Annie  was  not  little.  Although  slender, 
she  was,  in  fact,  quite  tall  and  wide  shouldered 
and  there  was  something  about  her  which 
seemed  to  justify  the  use  of  the  diminutive  ad 
jective.  Possibly  it  was  her  face,  which  was 
really  small  and  very  pretty,  with  perfect 
cameo-like  features  and  an  odd,  deprecating, 
almost  painfully  humble  expression.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  creature  entirely  capable  of  ask 
ing  an  enemy's  pardon  for  an  injury  inflicted 
upon  herself.  In  reality,  Annie  Eustace  had 
very  much  that  attitude  of  soul.  She  always 


94          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

considered  the  wrong  as  her  natural  place,  and, 
in  fact,  would  not  have  been  comfortable  else 
where,  although  she  suffered  there.  And  yet, 
little  Annie  Eustace  was  a  gifted  creature. 
There  was  probably  not  a  person  in  Fair- 
bridge  who  had  been  so  well  endowed  by  na 
ture,  but  her  environment  and  up-bringing 
had  been  unfortunate.  If  Annie's  mother  had 
lived,  the  daughter  might  have  had  more  spirit, 
but  she  had  died  when  Annie  was  a  baby,  and 
the  child  had  been  given  over  to  the  tyranny  of 
two  aunts,  and  a  grandmother.  As  for  her 
father,  he  had  never  married  again,  but  he  had 
never  paid  much  attention  to  her.  He  had 
been  a  reserved,  silent  man,  himself  under 
the  sway  of  his  mother  and  sisters.  Charles 
Eustace  had  had  an  obsession  to  the  effect  that 
the  skies  of  his  own  individual  sphere  would 
fall  to  his  and  his  child's  destruction,  if  his  fe 
male  relatives  deserted  him,  and  that  they  had 
threatened  to  do,  upon  the  slightest  sign  of  re 
volt.  Sometimes  Annie's  father  had  regarded 
her  wistfully  and  wondered  within  himself  if 
it  were  quite  right  for  a  child  to  be  so  entirely 
governed,  but  his  own  spirit  of  yielding  made 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  95 

it  impossible  for  Mm  to  realise  the  situation. 
Obedience  had  been  little  Annie  Eustace 's  first 
lesson  taught  by  the  trio,  who  to  her  repre 
sented  all  government,  in  her  individual  case. 

Annie  Eustace  obeyed  her  aunts,  and  grand 
mother  (her  father  had  been  dead  for  several 
years),  but  she  loved  only  three, — two  were 
women,  Margaret  Edes  and  Alice  Mendon ;  the 
other  was  a  man,  and  the  love  was  not  con 
fessed  to  her  own  heart. 

This  afternoon  Annie  wore  an  ugly  green 
gown,  which  was,  moreover,  badly  cut.  The 
sleeves  were  too  long  below  the  elbow,  and  too 
short  above,  and  every  time  she  moved  an  arm 
they  hitched  uncomfortably.  The  neck  ar 
rangement  was  exceedingly  unbecoming,  and 
the  skirt  not  well  hung.  The  green  was  of  the 
particular  shade  which  made  her  look  yellow. 
As  she  sat  beside  Margaret  and  embroidered 
assiduously,  and  very  unskilfully,  some  daisies 
on  a  linen  centre-piece,  the  other  woman  eyed 
her  critically. 

"You  should  not  wear  that  shade  of  green, 
if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  dear,"  she  re 
marked  presently. 


96          THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Annie  regarded  her  with  a  charming,  loving 
smile.  She  would  have  excused  her  idol  for 
saying  anything.  "I  know  it  is  not  very;  be 
coming,"  she  agreed  sweetly. 

"Becoming,"  said  Margaret  a  trifle  vi 
ciously.  She  was  so  out  of  sorts  about  her  fail 
ure  to  secure  Lydia  Greenway  that  she  felt  a 
great  relief  in  attacking  little  Annie  Eustace. 

"Becoming,"  said  she.  "It  actually  makes 
you  hideous.  That  shade  is  impossible  for  you 
and  why, — I  trust  you  will  not  be  offended,  you 
know  it  is  for  your  own  good,  dear, — why  do 
you  wear  your  hair  in  that  fashion?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  not  very  becoming,"  said 
Annie  with  the  meekness  of  those  who  inherit 
the  earth.  She  did  not  state  that  her  aunt 
Harriet  had  insisted  that  she  dress  her  hair  in 
that  fashion.  Annie  was  intensely  loyal. 

"Nobody,"  said  Margaret,  "unless  she  were 
as  beautiful  as  Helen  of  Troy,  should  wear  her 
hair  that  way,  and  not  look  a  fright." 

Annie  Eustace  blushed,  but  it  was  not  a  dis 
tressed  blush.  When  one  has  been  downtrod 
den  one's  whole  life,  one  becomes  accustomed 
to  it,  and  besides  she  loved  the  down-treader. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  97 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I  looked  at  myself  in  my 
glass  just  before  I  came  and  I  thought  I  did 
not  look  well." 

"Hideous,"  said  Margaret. 

Annie  smiled  agreement  and  looked  pretty, 
despite  the  fact  that  her  hair  was  strained 
tightly  back,  showing  too  much  of  her  intellec 
tual  forehead,  and  the  colour  of  her  gown  killed 
all  the  pink  bloom  lights  in  her  face.  Annie 
Eustace  had  a  beautiful  soul  and  it  showed 
forth  triumphant  over  all  bodily  accessories, 
in  her  smile. 

"You  are  not  doing  that  embroidery  at  all 
well,"  said  Margaret. 

Annie  laughed.  "I  know  it,"  she  said  with 
a  sort  of  meek  amusement.  "I  don't  think  I 
ever  can  master  long  and  short  stitch." 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  attempt  it  then?" 

"Everybody  embroiders,"  replied  Annie. 
She  did  not  state  that  her  grandmother  had 
made  taking  the  embroidery  a  condition  of  her 
call  upon  her  friend. 

Margaret  continued  to  regard  her.  She  was 
finding  a  species  of  salve  for  her  own  disap 
pointment  in  this  irritant  applied  to  another. 


98  THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"What  does  make  you  wear  that  hair  ring?" 
said  she. 

"It  was  a  present,"  replied  Annie  humbly, 
but  she  for  the  first  time  looked  a  little  dis 
turbed.  That  mourning  emblem  with  her 
father's  and  mother's,  and  a  departed  sister's 
hair  in  a  neat  little  twist  under  a  small  crys 
tal,  grated  upon  her  incessantly.  It  struck  her 
as  a  species  of  ghastly  sentiment,  which  at  once 
distressed,  and  impelled  her  to  hysterical 
mirth. 

"A  present,"  repeated  Margaret.  "If  any 
body  gave  me  such  a  present  as  that,  I  would 
never  wear  it.  It  is  simply  in  shocking  bad 
taste." 

"I  sometimes  fear  so,"  said  Annie.  She  did 
not  state  that  her  Aunt  Jane  never  allowed  her 
to  be  seen  in  public  without  that  dismal  adorn 
ment. 

"You  are  a  queer  girl,"  said  Margaret,  and 
she  summed  up  all  her  mood  of  petty  cruelty 
and  vicarious  revenge  in  that  one  word 
"queer." 

However,  little  Annie  Eustace  only  smiled  as 
if  she  had  been  given  a  peculiarly  acceptable 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE  99 

present.  She  was  so  used  to  being  underrated, 
that  she  had  become  in  a  measure  immune  to 
criticism,  and  besides  criticism  from  her  adored 
Mrs.  Edes  was  even  a  favour.  She  took 
another  bungling  stitch  in  the  petal  of  a  white 
floss  daisy. 

Margaret  felt  suddenly  irritated.  'All  this 
was  too  much  like  raining  fierce  blows  upon  a 
down  pillow. 

"Do,  for  goodness  sake,  Annie  Eustace,  stop 
doing  that  awful  embroidery  if  you  don't  want 
to  drive  me  crazy,"  said  she. 

Then  Annie  looked  at  Margaret,  and  she  was 
obviously  distressed  and  puzzled.  Her  grand 
mother  had  enjoined  it  upon  her  to  finish  just 
so  many  of  these  trying  daisies  before  her  re 
turn  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  here  was  Mar 
garet,  her  adorable  Margaret,  forbidding  her 
to  work,  and,  moreover,  Margaret  in  such  an 
irritable  mood,  with  that  smooth  brow  of  hers 
frowning,  and  that  sweet  voice,  which  usually 
had  a  lazy  trickle  like  honey,  fairly  rasping,  was 
as  awe-inspiring  as  her  grandmother.  Annie 
Eustace  hesitated  for  a  second.  Her  grand 
mother  had  commanded.  Margaret  Edes  had 


100         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

commanded.  The  strongest  impulse  of  her 
whole  being  was  obedience,  but  she  loved 
Margaret,  and  she  did  not  love  her  grand 
mother.  She  had  never  confessed  such 
a  horror  to  herself,  but  one  does  not  love 
another  human  being  whose  main  aim  to 
ward  one  is  to  compress,  to  stiffen,  to  make 
move  in  a  step  with  itself.  Annie  folded  up 
the  untidy  embroidery.  As  she  did  so,  she 
dropped  her  needle  and  also  her  thimble.  The 
needle  lay  glittering  beside  her  chair,  the  thim 
ble  rolled  noiselessly  over  the  trailing  fold  of 
her  muslin  gown  into  the  folds  of  Margaret's 
white  silk.  Margaret  felt  an  odd  delight  in 
that.  Annie  was  careless,  and  she  was  dainty, 
and  she  was  conscious  of  a  little  pleasurable 
preening  of  her  own  soul-plumage. 

Margaret  said  nothing  about  the  thimble  and 
needle.  Annie  sat  regarding  her  with  a  sort 
of  expectation,  and  the  somewhat  mussy  little 
parcel  of  linen  lay  in  her  lap.  Annie  folded 
over  it  her  very  slender  hands,  and  the  horrible 
hair  ring  was  in  full  evidence. 

Margaret  fixed  her  eyes  upon  it.  Annie 
quickly  placed  the  hand  which  wore  it  under 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOU^E  .        1C1 

the  other.  Then  she  spoke,  since  Margaret  did 
not,  and  she  said  exactly  the  wrong  thing.  The 
being  forced  continually  into  the  wrong,  often 
has  the  effect  of  making  one  quite  innocently 
take  the  first  step  in  that  direction  even  if  no 
force  be  used. 

"I  hear  that  the  last  meeting  of  the  Zenith 
Club  was  unusually  interesting/'  said  little 
Annie  Eustace,  and  she  could  have  said  nothing 
more  hapless  to  Margaret  Edes  in  her  present 
mood.  Quite  inadvertently,  she  herself  be 
came  the  irritant  party.  Margaret  actually 
flushed.  "I  failed  to  see  anything  interesting 
.whatever  about  it,  myself,"  said  she  tartly. 

Annie  offended  again.  "I  heard  that  Mrs. 
Sarah  Joy  Snyder's  address  was  really  very  re 
markable,  "  said  she. 

"It  was  simply  a  very  stupid  effort  to  be 
funny,"  returned  Margaret.  "Sometimes 
women  will  laugh  because  they  are  expected  to, 
and  they  did  that  afternoon.  Everything  was 
simply  cut  and  dried.  It  always  is  at  Mrs. 
George  B.  Slade's.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so 
absolutely  destitute  of  originality." 

Annie  looked  helplessly  at  Margaret.     She 


162       '  THE  fcUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

could  say  no  more  unless  she  contradicted. 
Margaret  continued.  She  felt  that  she  could 
no  longer  conceal  her  own  annoyance,  and  she 
was  glad  of  this  adoring  audience  of  one. 

"I  had  planned  something  myself  for  the 
next  meeting,  something  which  has  never  been 
done,"  said  she,  "  some  thing  new,  and  stimu 
lating." 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  cried  Annie. 

"But  of  course,  like  all  really  clever  plans 
for  the  real  good  and  progress  of  a  club  like 
ours,  something  has  to  come  up  to  prevent," 
said  Margaret. 

"Oh,  what!" 

"Well,  I  had  planned  to  have  Lydia  Green- 
way,  you  know  she  is  really  a  great  artist,  come 
to  the  next  meeting  and  give  dramatic  recita 
tions." 

"Oh,  would  she?"  gasped  Annie  Eustace. 

"Of  course,  it  would  have  meant  a  large  pe 
cuniary  outlay,"  said  Margaret,  "but  I  was 
prepared,  quite  prepared,  to  make  some  sacri 
fices  for  the  good  of  the  club,  but,  why,  you 
must  have  read  it  in  the  papers,  Annie." 

Annie  looked  guiltily  ignorant. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         103 

"I  really  do  not  see  how  you  contrive  to  ex 
ist  without  keeping  more  in  touch  with  the  cur 
rent  events,"  said  Margaret. 

Annie  looked  meekly  culpable,  although  she 
was  not.  Her  aunts  did  not  approve  of  news 
papers,  as  containing  so  much  information,  so 
much  cheap  information  concerning  the  evil  in 
the  world,  especially  for  a  young  person  like 
Annie,  and  she  was  not  allowed  to  read  them, 
although  she  sometimes  did  so  surreptitiously. 

"It  was  in  all  the  papers,"  continued  Mar 
garet,  with  her  censorious  air.  "Lydia  Green- 
way  was  obliged  to  leave  unexpectedly  and  go 
to  the  Riveria.  They  fear  tuberculosis.  She 
sailed  last  Saturday." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Annie.  Then  she  pro 
ceeded  to  elaborate  her  statement  in  exactly 
the  wrong  way.  She  said  how  very  dreadful 
it  would  be  if  such  a  talented  young  actress 
should  fall  a  victim  of  such  a  terrible  disease, 
and  what  a  loss  she  would  be  to  the  public, 
whereas  all  that  Margaret  Edes  thought  should 
be  at  all  considered  by  any  true  friend  of  her 
own  was  her  own  particular  loss. 

"For  once  the  Zenith  Club  would  have  had  a 


104         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

meeting  calculated  to  take  Fairbridge  women 
out  of  their  rut  in  which  people  like  Mrs.  Slade 
and  Mrs.  Sturtevant  seem  determined  to  keep 
them,"  returned  Margaret  testily.  Annie 
stared  at  her.  Margaret  often  said  that  it  was 
the  first  rule  of  her  life  never  to  speak  ill  of 
any  one,  and  she  kept  the  letter  of  it  as  a  rule. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Annie.  Then  she 
added  with  more  tact.  "It  would  have  been 
such  a  wonderful  thing  for  us  all  to  have  had 
Lydia  Greenway  give  dramatic  recitals  to  us. 
Oh,  Margaret,  I  can  understand  how  much  it 
would  have  meant." 

"It  would  have  meant  progress,"  said  Mar 
garet.  She  looked  imperiously  lovely,  as  she 
sat  there  all  frilled  about  with  white  lace  and 
silk  with  the  leaf-shadows  playing  over  the 
slender  whiteness.  She  lifted  one  little  hand 
tragically.  "Progress,"  she  repeated.  "Prog 
ress  beyond  Mrs.  George  B.  Slade 's  and  Mrs. 
Sturtevant 's  and  Miss  Bessy  Dicky's,  and 
that  is  precisely  what  we  need." 

Annie  Eustace  gazed  wistfully  upon  her 
friend.  "Yes,"  she  agreed,  "you  are  quite 
right,  Margaret.  Mrs.  Slade  and  Mrs.  Sturte- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         105 

vant  and  poor  Bessy  Dicky  and  all  the  other 
members  are  very  good,  and  we  think  highly  of 
them,  but  I  too  feel  that  we  all  travel  in  a  rut 
sometimes.  Perhaps  we  all  walk  too  much  the 
same  way."  Then  suddenly  Annie  burst  into 
a  peal  of  laughter.  She  had  a  sense  of  humour 
which  was  startling.  It  was  the  one  thing 
which  environment  had  not  been  able  to  subdue, 
or  even  produce  the  effect  of  submission. 
Annie  Eustace  was  easily  amused.  She  had  a 
scent  for  the  humorous  like  a  hound's  for  game, 
and  her  laugh  was  irrepressible. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  laughing  at  now?" 
inquired  Margaret  Edes  irritably. 

"I  was  thinking,"  Annie  replied  chokingly, 
"of  some  queer  long-legged  birds  I  saw  once 
in  a  cage  in  a  park.  I  really  don't  know 
whether  they  were  ibises  or  cranes,  or  survivals 
of  species,  but  anyway,  the  little  long-legged 
ones  all  walked  just  the  same  way  in  a  file  be 
hind  a  tall  long-legged  one,  who  walked  precisely 
in  the  same  way,  and  all  of  a  sudden,  I  seemed 
to  see  us  all  like  that.  Only  you  are  not  in  the 
least  like  that  tall,  long-legged  bird,  Margaret, 
and  you  are  the  president  of  the  Zenith  Club." 


106         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

Margaret  surveyed  Annie  with  cool  displeas 
ure.  "I,"  said  she,  "see  nothing  whatever  to 
laugh  at  in  the  Zenith  Club,  if  you  do." 

"Oh,  Margaret,  I  don't!"  cried  Annie. 

"To  my  mind,  the  Zenith  Club  is  the  one  in 
stitution  in  this  little  place  which  tends  to  ad 
vancement  and  mental  improvement. ' ' 

"Oh,  Margaret,  I  think  so  too,  you  know  I 
do,"  said  Annie  in  a  shocked  voice.  "And  my 
heart  was  almost  broken  because  I  had  to  miss 
that  last  meeting  on  account  of  grandmother's 
having  such  a  severe  cold." 

"The  last  meeting  was  not  very  much  to 
miss,"  said  Margaret,  for  !A.nnie  had  again 
said  the  wrong  thing. 

Annie,  however,  went  on  eagerly  and  uncon 
sciously.  She  was  only  aware  that  she  was  be 
ing  accused  of  disloyalty,  or  worse,  of  actually 
poking  fun,  when  something  toward  which  she 
felt  the  utmost  respect  and  love  and  admira 
tion  was  concerned. 

"Margaret,  you  know,"  she  cried,  "you 
know  how  I  feel  toward  the  Zenith  Club.  You 
must  know  what  it  means  to  me.  It  really  does 
take  me  out  of  my  little  narrow  place  in  life  as 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         107 

nothing  else  does.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  an 
inspiration  it  really  is  to  me.  Oh,  Margaret, 
you  know!" 

Margaret  nodded  in  stiff  assent.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  she  did  know.  The  Zenith  Club  of 
Fairbridge  did  mean  very  much,  very  much  in 
deed,  to  little  Annie  Eustace.  Nowhere  else 
did  she  meet  en  masse  others  of  her  kind.  She 
did  not  even  go  to  church  for  the  reason  that 
her  grandmother  did  not  believe  in  church 
going  at  all  and  wished  her  to  remain  with  her. 
One  aunt  was  Dutch  Reformed  and  the  other 
Baptist;  and  neither  ever  missed  a  service. 
Annie  remained  at  home  Sundays,  and  read 
aloud  to  her  grandmother,  and  when  both  aunts 
were  in  the  midst  of  their  respective  services, 
and  the  cook,  who  was  intensely  religious,  en 
gaged  in  preparing  dinner,  she  and  her  old 
grandmother  played  pinocle.  However,  al 
though  Annie  played  cards  very  well,  it  was 
only  with  her  relatives.  She  had  never  been 
allowed  to  join  the  Fairbridge  Card  Club. 
She  never  attended  a  play  in  the  city,  because 
Aunt  Jane  considered  plays  wicked.  It  was  in 
reality  doubtful  if  she  would  have  been  per- 


108         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

mitted  to  listen  to  Lydia  Greenway,  had  that 
person  been  available.  Annie's  sole  large  rec 
reation  was  the  Zenith  Club,  and  it  meant,  as 
she  had  said,  much  to  her.  It  was  to  the 
stifled  young  heart  as  a  great  wind  of  stimu 
lus  which  was  for  the  strengthening  of  her 
soul.  Whatever  the  Zenith  Club  of  Fair- 
bridge  was  to  others,  it  was  very  much 
worth  while  for  little  Annie  Eustace.  She 
wrote  papers  for  it,  which  were  astonishing, 
although  her  hearers  dimly  appreciated  the 
fact,  not  because  of  dulness,  but  because  little 
Annie  had  written  them,  and  it  seemed  incred 
ible  to  Fairbridge  women  that  little  Annie 
Eustace  whom  they  had  always  known,  and 
whose  grandmother  and  aunts  they  knew, 
could  possibly  write  anything  remarkable.  It 
was  only  Alice  Mendon  who  listened  with  a 
frown  of  wonder,  and  intent  eyes  upon  the 
reader.  When  she  came  home  upon  one  occa 
sion,  she  remarked  to  her  aunt,  Eliza  Mendon, 
and  her  cousin,  Lucy  Mendon,  that  she  had 
been  impressed  by  Annie  Eustace's  paper,  but 
both  women  only  stared  and  murmured  assent. 
The  cousin  was  very  much  older  than  Alice, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         109 

and  both  she  and  her  mother  were  of  a  placid, 
reflective  type.  They  got  on  very  well  with 
Alice,  but  sometimes  she  had  a  queer  weariness 
from  always  seeing  herself  and  her  own  ideas 
in  them  instead  of  their  own.  And  she  was 
not  in  the  least  dictatorial.  She  would  have 
preferred  open,  antagonistic  originality,  but 
she  got  a  surfeit  of  clear,  mirror-like  peace. 

She  was  quite  sure  that  they  would  quote  her 
opinion  of  Annie  Eustace's  paper,  but  that  did 
not  please  her.  Later  on  she  spoke  to  Annie 
herself  about  it.  "Haven't  you  something  else 
written  that  you  can  show  me  ? ' '  She  had  even 
suggested  the  possibility,  the  desirability,  of 
Annie's  taking  up  a  literary  career,  but  she  had 
found  the  girl  very  evasive,  even  secretive,  and 
had  never  broached  the  subject  again. 

As  for  Margaret  Edes,  she  had  never  fairly 
listened  to  anything  which  anybody  except  her 
self  had  written,  unless  it  had  afforded  matter 
for  discussion,  and  the  display  of  her  own  bril 
liancy.  Annie's  productions  were  so  modestly 
conclusive  as  to  apparently  afford  no  standing 
ground  for  argument.  In  her  heart,  Margaret 
regarded  them  as  she  regarded  Annie's  person- 


110         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

ality,  with  a  contempt  so  indifferent  that  it  was 
hardly  contempt. 

She  proceeded  exactly  as  if  Annie  had  not 
made  such  a  fervent  disclaimer.  "The  Zenith 
Club  is  the  one  and  only  thing  which  lifts 
Fairbridge,  and  the  women  of  Fairbridge,  above 
the  common  herd,"  said  she  majestically. 

"Don't  I  know  it?  Oh,  Margaret,  don't  I 
know  it,"  cried  the  other  with  such  feverish 
energy  that  Margaret  regarded  her  wonder- 
ingly.  For  all  her  exploiting  of  the  Zenith 
Club  of  Fairbridge,  she  herself,  unless  she  were" 
the  main  figure  at  the  helm,  could  realise  noth 
ing  in  it  so  exceedingly  inspiring,  but  it  was 
otherwise  with  Annie.  It  was  quite  conceiv 
able  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  Zenith  Club, 
she  never  would  have  grown  to  her  full  mental 
height.  Annie  Eustace  had  a  mind  of  the  se 
quential  order.  By  subtle  processes,  unanalysa 
ble  even  by  herself,  even  the  record  of  Miss 
Bessy  Dicky  started  this  mind  upon  momentous 
trains  of  thought.  Unquestionably  the  Zenith 
Club  acted  as  a  fulminate  for  little  Annie  Eus 
tace.  To  others  it  might  seem,  during  some  of 
the  sessions,  as  a  pathetic  attempt  of  village 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         111 

women  to  raise  themselves  upon  tiptoes  enough 
to  peer  over  their  centuries  of  weedy  feminine 
growth;  an  attempt  which  was  as  futile, 
and  even  ridiculous,  as  an  attempt  of  a  cow  to 
fly.  But  the  Zenith  Club  justified  its  existence 
nobly  in  the  result  of  little  Annie  Eustace,  if  in 
no  other,  and  it,  no  doubt,  justified  itself  in 
others.  Who  can  say  what  that  weekly  gath 
ering  meant  to  women  who  otherwise  would 
not  move  outside  their  little  treadmill  of  house 
hold  labour,  what  uplifting,  if  seemingly  futile 
grasps  at  the  great  outside  of  life?  Let  no  one 
underrate  the  Women's  Club  until  the  years 
have  proven  its  uselessness. 

"I  am  so  sorry  about  Lydia  Greenway,"  said 
Annie,  and  this  time  she  did  not  irritate  Mar 
garet. 

"It  does  seem  as  if  one  were  simply  doomed 
to  failure  every  time  one  really  made  an  effort 
to  raise  standards,"  said  Margaret. 

Then  it  was  that  Annie  all  unconsciously 
sowed  a  seed  which  led  to  strange,  and  rather 
terrifying  results.  "It  would  be  nice,"  said 
little  Annie,  "if  we  could  get  Miss  Martha 
Wallingford  to  read  a  selection  from  Hearts 


112         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

Astray  at  a  meeting  of  the  club.  I  read  a  few 
nights  ago,  in  a  paper  I  happened  to  pick  up  at 
Alice's,  that  she  was  staying  in  New  York  at 
the  Hollingsgate.  Her  publishers  were  to  give 
her  a  dinner  last  night,  I  believe." 

Margaret  Edes  started.  "I  had  not  seen 
that,"  she  said.  Then  she  added  in  a  queer 
brooding  fashion,  "That  book  of  hers  had  an 
enormous  sale.  I  suppose  her  publishers  feel 
that  they  owe  it  to  her  to  give  her  a  good  time 
in  New  York.  Then,  too,  it  will  advertise 
Hearts  Astray." 

"Did  you  like  the  book?"  asked  Annie  rather 
irrelevantly.  Margaret  did  not  reply.  She 
was  thinking  intently.  "It  would  be  a  great 
feature  for  the  club  if  we  could  induce  her  to 
give  a  reading,"  she  said  at  length. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  be  possible,"  re 
plied  Annie.  "You  know  they  say  she  never 
does  such  things,  and  is  very  retiring.  I  read 
in  the  papers  that  she  was,  and  that  she  refused 
even  to  speak  a  few  words  at  the  dinner  given 
in  her  honour." 

"We  might  ask  her,"  said  Margaret. 

"I  am  sure  that  she  would  not  come.     The 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         113 

paper  stated  that  she  had  had  many  invitations 
to  Women's  Clubs  and  had  refused.  I  don't 
think  she  ought  because  she  might  be  such  a 
help  to  other  women. " 

Margaret  said  nothing.  She  leaned  back, 
and,  for  once,  her  face  was  actually  contracted 
with  thought  to  the  possible  detriment  of  its 
smooth  beauty. 

A  clock  in  the  house  struck,  and  at  the  same 
time  Maida  and  Adelaide  raced  up  the  steps, 
followed  by  gleeful  calls  from  two  little  boys 
on  the  sidewalk. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Margaret. 
Then  she  said  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  "If 
Martha  Wallingford  would  come,  I  should  pre 
fer  that  to  Lydia  Greenway." 

Maida  and  Adelaide,  flushed  and  panting, 
and  both  with  mouths  full  of  candy,  glanced  at 
their  mother,  then  Maida  chased  Adelaide  into 
the  house,  their  blue  skirts  flitting  out  of  sight 
like  blue  butterfly  wings. 

Annie  Eustace  rose.  She  had  noticed  that 
neither  Maida  nor  Adelaide  had  greeted  her, 
and  thought  them  rude.  She  herself  had  been 
most  carefully  trained  concerning  manners  of 


114         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

incoming  and  outgoing.  She,  however,  did  not 
care.  She  had  no  especial  love  for  children 
unless  they  were  small  and  appealing  because 
of  helplessness. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said.  "It  is  six  o'clock, 
supper  will  be  ready."  She  glanced  rather  ap 
prehensively  as  she  spoke  at  the  large  white 
house,  not  two  minutes'  walk  distant  across 
the  street. 

"How  very  delightful  it  is  to  lie  as  punctual 
as  your  people  are,"  said  Margaret.  "Good 
bye,  Annie."  She  spoke  abstractedly,  and 
Annie  felt  a  little  hurt.  She  loved  Margaret, 
and  she  missed  her  full  attention  when  she  left 
her.  She  passed  down  the  walk  between  Mar 
garet's  beautifully  kept  Japanese  trees,  and 
gained  the  sidewalk.  Then  a  sudden  recollec 
tion  filled  her  with  dismay.  She  had  promised 
her  grandmother  to  go  to  the  post-office  before 
returning.  An  important  business  letter  was 
expected.  Annie  swept  the  soft  tail  of  her 
muslin  into  a  little  crushed  ball,  and  ran,  her 
slender  legs  showing  like  those  of  a  young  bird 
beneath  its  fluff  of  plumage.  She  realized  the 
necessity  of  speed,  of  great  speed,  for  the  post- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         115 

office  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  the 
Eustace  family  supped  at  five  minutes  past  six, 
with  terrible  and  relentless  regularity.  Why 
it  should  have  been  five  minutes  past  instead 
of  upon  the  stroke  of  the  hour,  Annie  had  never 
known,  but  so  it  was.  It  was  as  great  an  offence 
to  be  a  minute  too  early  as  a  minute  too  late 
at  the  Eustace  house,  and  many  a  maid  had 
been  discharged  for  that  offence,  her  plea  that 
the  omelet  was  cooked  and  would  fall  if  the 
meal  be  delayed,  being  disregarded.  Poor 
Annie  felt  that  she  must  hasten.  She  could  not 
be  dismissed  like  the  maid,  but  something 
equally  to  be  dreaded  would  happen,  were  she 
to  present  herself  half  a  minute  behind  time  in 
the  dining-room.  There  they  would  be  seated, 
her  grandmother,  her  Aunt  Harriet,  and  her 
Aunt  Jane.  Aunt  Harriet  behind  the  silver 
tea  service;  Aunt  Jane  behind  the  cut  glass 
bowl  of  preserves;  her  grandmother  behind 
the  silver  butter  dish,  and  on  the  table  would 
be  the  hot  biscuits  cooling,  the  omelet  falling, 
the  tea  drawing  too  long  and  all  because  of 
her.  There  was  tremendous  etiquette  in  the 
Eustace  family.  Not  a  cup  of  tea  would  Aunt 


116         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

Harriet  pour,  not  a  spoon  would  Aunt  Jane  dip 
into  the  preserves,  not  a  butter  ball  would  her 
grandmother  impale  upon  the  little  silver  fork. 
And  poor  Hannah,  the  maid,  white  aproned  and 
capped,  would  stand  behind  Aunt  Harriet  like 
a  miserable  conscious  graven  image.    There 
fore  Annie  ran,  and  ran,  and  it  happened  that 
she   ran   rather   heedlessly   and   blindly   and 
dropped  her  mussy  little   package   of  fancy 
work,  and  Karl  von  Eosen,  coming  out  of  the 
parsonage,  saw  it  fall  and  picked  it  up  rather 
gingerly,  and  called  as  loudly  as  was  decorous 
after  the  flying  figure,  but  Annie  did  not  hear 
and  Von  Eosen  did  not  want  to  shout,  neither 
did  he  want,  or  rather  think  it  advisable,  to 
run,  therefore  he  followed  holding  the  linen 
package  well  away  from  him,  as  if  it  were  a 
disagreeable  insect.    He  had  never  seen  much 
of  Annie  Eustace.    Now  and  then  he  called 
upon  one  of  her  aunts,  who  avowed  her  prefer 
ence  for  his  religious  denomination,  but  if  he 
saw  Annie  at  all,  she  was  seated  engaged  upon 
some    such   doubtfully   ornamental   or   useful 
task,  as  the  specimen  which  he  now  carried. 
Truth  to  say,  he  had  scarcely  noticed  Annie 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         117 

Eustace  at  all.  She  had  produced  the  effect  of 
shrinking  from  observation  under  some  subtle 
shadow  of  self-effacement.  She  was  in  reality 
a  very  rose  of  a  girl,  loving  and  sweet,  and 
withal  wonderfully  endowed;  but  this  human 
rose,  dwelt  always  for  Karl  von  Rosen,  in  the 
densest  of  bowers  through  which  her  beauty  and 
fragrance  of  character  could  not  penetrate  his 
senses.  Undoubtedly  also,  although  his  mascu 
line  intelligence  would  have  scouted  the  possi 
bility  of  such  a  thing,  Annie's  dull,  ill-made 
garb  served  to  isolate  her.  She  also  never 
came  to  church.  That  perfect  little  face  with 
its  expression  of  strange  insight,  must  have 
aroused  his  attention  among  his  audience.  But 
there  was  only  the  Aunt  Harriet  Eustace,  an 
exceedingly  thin  lady,  present  and  always  at 
tired  in  rich  blacks.  Karl  von  Rosen  to-day 
walking  as  rapidly  as  became  his  dignity,  in 
pursuit  of  the  young  woman,  was  aware  that 
he  hardly  felt  at  liberty  to  accost  her  with  any 
thing  more  than  the  greeting  of  the  day.  He 
eyed  disapprovingly  the  parcel  which  he  car 
ried.  It  was  a  very  dingy  white,  and  greyish 
threads  dangled  from  it.  Von  Rosen  thought 


118         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

it  a  most  unpleasant  thing,  and  reflected  with 
mild  scorn  and  bewilderment  concerning  the 
manner  of  mind  which  could  find  amusement 
over  such  employment,  for  he  divined  that  it 
was  a  specimen  of  feminine  skill,  called  fancy 
work. 

Annie  Eustace  ran  so  swiftly  with  those  long 
agile  legs  of  hers  that  he  soon  perceived  that  in 
terception  upon  her  return,  and  not  overtaking, 
must  ensue.  He  did  not  gain  upon  her  at  all, 
and  he  began  to  understand  that  he  was  mak 
ing  himself  ridiculous  to  possible  observers  in 
windows.  He  therefore  slackened  his  pace, 
and  met  Annie  upon  her  return.  She  had  a  let 
ter  in  her  hand  and  was  advancing  with  a  head 
long  rush,  and  suddenly  she  attracted  him.  Ho 
surrendered  the  parcel.  "  Thank  you  very 
much,"  said  Annie,  "but  I  almost  wish  you  had 
not  found  it." 

Von  Eosen  stared  at  her.  Was  she  rude 
after  all,  this  very  pretty  girl,  who  was  capa 
ble  of  laughter.  "You  would  not  blame  me  if 
you  had  to  embroider  daisies  on  that  dreadful 
piece  of  linen,"  said  Annie  with  a  rueful 
glance  at  the  dingy  package. 


"I  almost  wish  yon  had  not  found  it" 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         119 

Von  Eosen  smiled  kindly  at  her.  "I  'don't 
blame  you  at  all,"  he  replied.  "I  can  under 
stand  it  must  be  a  dismal  task  to  embroider 
daisies." 

"It  is,  Mr.  yon  Eosen — "  Annie  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  said  Von  Eosen  encouragingly. 

"You  know  I  never  go  to  church." 

"Yes,"  said  Von  Eosen  mendaciously.  He 
really  did  not  know.  In  future  he,  however, 
would. 

"Well,  I  don't  go  because — "  again  Annie 
hesitated,  while  the  young  man  waited  inter 
rogatively. 

Then  Annie  spoke  with  force.  "I  would 
really  like  to  go  occasionally,"  she  said,  "I 
doubt  if  I  would  always  care  to." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  would,"  assented  Von 
Eosen  with  a  queer  delight. 

"But  I  never  can  because — Grandmother  is 
old  and  she  has  not  much  left  in  life,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Of  course." 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  people  to  talk  about 
firesides,  and  knitting  work,  and  peaceful  eyes 
of  age  fixed  upon  Heavenly  homes,"  said 


120         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Annie,  "but  all  old  people  are  not  like  that. 
Grandma  hates  to  knit  although  she  does  think 
I  should  embroider  daisies,  and  she  does  like 
to  have  me  play  pinocle  with  her  Sunday  morn 
ings,  when  Aunt  Harriet  and  Aunt  Jane  are 
out  of  the  way.  It  is  the  only  chance  she  has 
during  the  whole  week  you  know  because 
neither  Aunt  Harriet  nor  Aunt  Jane  approves 
of  cards,  and  poor  Grandma  is  so  fond  of  them, 
it  seems  cruel  not  to  play  with  her  the  one 
chance  she  has." 

"I  think  you  are  entirely  right,"  said  Von 
Eosen  with  grave  conviction  and  he  was 
charmed  that  the  girl  regarded  him  as  if  he  had 
said  nothing  whatever  unusual. 

"I  have  always  been  sure  that  it  was  right, " 
said  Annie  Eustace,  "but  I  would  like  some 
times  to  go  to  church." 

"I  really  wish  you  could,"  said  Von  Eosen, 
"and  I  would  make  an  especial  effort  to  write 
a  good  sermon." 

"Oh,"  said  Annie,  "Aunt  Harriet  often 
hears  you  preach  one  which  she  thinks  very 
good." 

Von  Eosen  bowed.     Suddenly  Annie's  shy- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         121 

ness,  reserve,  whatever  it  was,  seemed  to  over 
cloud  her.  The  lovely  red  faded  from  her 
cheeks,  the  light  from  her  eyes.  She  lost  her 
beauty  in  a  great  measure.  She  bowed  stiffly, 
saying:  "I  thank  you  very  much,  good  even 
ing,  "  and  passed  on,  leaving  the  young  man 
rather  dazed,  pleased  and  yet  distinctly  an 
noyed,  and  annoyed  in  some  inscrutable  fashion 
at  himself. 

Then  he  heard  shouts  of  childish  laughter, 
and  a  scamper  of  childish  feet,  and  Maida  and 
Adelaide  Edes  rushed  past,  almost  jostling 
him  from  the  sidewalk.  Maida  carried  a 
letter,  which  her  mother  had  written,  and  dis 
patched  to  the  last  mail.  And  that  letter  was 
destined  to  be  of  more  importance  to  Von 
Eosen  than  he  knew. 

As  for  Annie  Eustace,  whose  meeting  with 
Yon  Rosen  had,  after  her  first  lapse  into  the 
unconsciousness  of  mirth,  disturbed  her,  as  the 
meeting  of  the  hero  of  a  dream  always  dis 
turbs  a  true  maiden  who  has  not  lost  through 
many  such  meetings  the  thrill  of  them,  she  hur 
ried  home  trembling,  and  found  everything  just 
exactly  as  she  knew  it  would  be. 


122         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

There  sat  Aunt  Harriet  perfectly  motionless 
behind  the  silver  tea  service,  and  although  the 
cosy  was  drawn  over  the  teapot,  the  tea  seemed 
to  be  reproachfully  drawing  to  that  extent  that 
Annie  could  hear  it.  There  sat  Aunt  Jane  be 
hind  the  cut  glass  bowl  of  preserved  fruit,  with 
the  untouched  silver  spoon  at  hand.  There  sat 
her  grandmother  behind  the  butter  plate. 
There  stood  Hannah,  white  capped  and  white 
aproned,  holding  the  silver  serving  tray  like  a 
petrified  statue  of  severity,  and  not  one  of  them 
spoke,  but  their  silence,  their  dignified,  re 
proachful  silence  was  infinitely  worse  than  a 
torrent  of  invective.  How  Annie  wished  they 
would  speak.  How  she  wished  that  she  could 
speak  herself,  but  she  knew  better  than  to  even 
offer  an  excuse  for  her  tardiness.  Well  she 
knew  that  the  stony  silence  which  would  meet 
that  would  be  worse,  much  worse  than  this. 
So  she  slid  into  her  place  opposite  her  Aunt 
Jane,  and  began  her  own  task  of  dividing  into 
sections  the  omelet  which  was  quite  flat  be 
cause  she  was  late,  and  seemed  to  reproach  her 
in  a  miserable,  low-down  sort  of  fashion. 

However,  there  was  in  the  girl's  heart  a  little 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         123 

glint  of  youthful  joy,  which  was  unusual.  She 
had  met  Mr.  Von  Rosen  and  had  forgotten  her 
self,  that  is  at  first,  and  he  had  looked  kindly  at 
her.  There  was  no  foolish  hope  in  little  Annie 
Eustace's  heart;  there  would  be  no  spire  of  as 
piration  added  to  her  dreams  because  of  the 
meeting,  but  she  tasted  the  sweet  of  approba 
tion,  and  it  was  a  tonic  which  she  sorely  needed, 
and  which  inspired  her  to  self-assertion  in  a 
childishly  naughty  and  mischievous  way.  It 
was  after  supper  that  evening,  that  Annie 
strolled  a  little  way  down  the  street,  taking  ad 
vantage  of  Miss  Bessy  Dicky's  dropping  in  for 
a  call,  to  slink  unobserved  out  of  her 
shadowy  corner,  for  the  Eustaces  were  fond 
of  sitting  in  the  twilight.  The  wind  had 
come  up,  the  violent  strong  wind  which  comes 
out  of  the  south,  and  Annie  walked  very  near 
the  barberry  hedge  which  surrounded  Doctor 
Sturtevant's  grounds,  and  the  green  muslin 
lashed  against  it  to  its  undoing.  When  Annie 
returned,  the  skirt  was  devastated  and  Aunt 
Harriet  decreed  that  it  could  not  be  mended 
and  must  be  given  to  the  poor  Joy  children. 
There  were  many  of  those  children  of  a  degen- 


124:         ,THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

erate  race,  living  on  the  outskirts  of  Fairbridge, 
and  Annie  had  come  to  regard  them  as  living 
effigies  of  herself,  since  everything  which  she 
had  outgrown  or  injured  past  repair,  fell  to 
them.  * '  There  will  be  enough  to  make  two  nice 
dresses  for  Charlotte  and  Minnie  Joy,"  said 
Aunt  Harriet,  "and  it  will  not  be  wasted,  even 
if  you  have  been  so  careless,  Annie." 

Annie  could  see  a  vision  of  those  two  little 
Joy  girls  getting  about  in  the  remnants  of  her 
ghastly  muslin,  and  she  shuddered,  although 
with  relief. 

"You  had  better  wear  your  cross  barred 
white  muslin  afternoons  now,"  said  Aunt  Har 
riet,  and  Annie  smiled  for  that  was  a  pretty 
dress.  She  smiled  still  more  when  Aunt  Jane 
said  that  now  as  the  cross-barred  white  was  to 
be  worn  every  day,  another  dress  must  be 
bought,  and  she  mentioned  China  silk — some 
thing  which  Annie  had  always  longed  to  own — 
and  blue,  dull  blue, — a  colour  which  she  loved. 

Just  before  she  went  to  bed,  Annie  stood  in 
the  front  doorway  looking  out  at  the  lovely 
moonlight  and  the  wonderful  shadows  which 
transformed  the  village  street,  like  the  wings 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         125 

of  angels,  and  she  heard  voices  and  laughter 
from  the  Edes'  house  opposite.  Then  Mar 
garet  began  singing  in  her  shrill  piercing  voice 
from  which  she  had  hoped  much,  but  which  had 
failed  to  please,  even  at  the  Zenith  Club. 

Annie  adored  Margaret,  but  she  shrank  be 
fore  her  singing  voice.  If  she  had  only  known 
what  was  passing  through  the  mind  of  the 
singer  after  she  went  to  bed  that  night,  she 
would  have  shuddered  more,  for  Margaret  Edes 
was  planning  a  possible  coup  before  which 
Annie,  in  spite  of  a  little  latent  daring  of  her 
own,  would  have  been  aghast. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  morning  Margaret  announced  her 
self  as  feeling  so  much  better  that  she  thought 
she  would  go  to  New  York.  She  had  several 
errands,  she  said,  and  the  day  was  beautiful 
and  the  little  change  would  do  her  good.  She 
would  take  the  train  with  her  husband,  but  a 
different  ferry,  as  she  wished  to  go  up  town. 
Wilbur  acquiesced  readily.  "It  is  a  mighty 
fine  morning,  and  you  need  to  get  out,"  he  said. 
Poor  Wilbur  at  this  time  felt  guiltily  culpable 
that  he  did  not  own  a  motor  car  in  which  his 
Margaret  might  take  the  air.  He  had  tried  to 
see  his  way  clear  toward  buying  one,  but  in 
spite  of  a  certain  improvidence,  the  whole  na 
ture  of  the  man  was  intrinsically  honest.  He  al 
ways  ended  his  conference  with  himself  concern 
ing  the  motor  by  saying  that  he  could  not  possi 
bly  keep  it  running,  even  if  he  were  to  manage 
the  first  cost,  and  pay  regularly  his  other  bills. 
He,  however,  felt  it  to  be  a  shame  to  himself 
that  it  was  so,  and  experienced  a  thrill  of  pos- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         127 

itive  pain  of  covetousness,  not  for  himself,  but 
'for  his  Margaret,  when  one  of  the  luxurious 
things  whirled  past  him  in  Fairbridge.  He, 
it  was  true,  kept  a  very  smart  little  carriage 
and  horse,  but  that  was  not  as  much  as  Mar 
garet  should  have.  Every  time  Margaret 
seemed  a  little  dull,  or  complained  of  headache, 
as  she  had  done  lately,  he  thought  miserably  of 
that  motor  car,  which  was  her  right.  There 
fore  when  she  planned  any  little  trip  like  that 
of  to-day,  he  was  immeasurably  pleased.  At 
the  same  time  he  regarded  her  with  a  slightly 
bewildered  expression,  for  in  some  subtle  fash 
ion,  her  face  as  she  propounded  the  trifling  plan, 
looked  odd  to  him,  and  her  voice  also  did  not 
sound  quite  natural.  However,  he  dismissed 
the  idea  at  once  as  mere  fancy,  and  watched 
proudly  the  admiring  glances  bestowed  upon 
her  in  the  Fairbridge  station,  while  they  were 
waiting  for  the  train.  Margaret  had  a  pecul 
iar  knack  in  designing  costumes  which  were 
at  once  plain  and  striking.  This  morning  she 
wore  a  black  China  silk,  through  the  thin  bodice 
of  which  was  visible  an  under  silk  strewn  with 
gold  disks.  Her  girdle  was  clasped  with  a  gold 


128         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

buckle,  and  when  she  moved  there  were  slight 
glimpses  of  a  yellow  silk  petticoat.  Her  hat 
was  black,  but  under  the  brim  was  tucked  a 
yellow  rose  against  her  yellow  hair.  Then  to  fin 
ish  all,  Margaret  wore  in  the  lace  at  her  throat, 
a  great  brooch  of  turquoise  matrix,  which 
matched  her  eyes.  Her  husband  realised  her 
as  perfectly  attired,  although  he  did  not  in  the 
least  understand  why.  He  knew  that  his  Mar 
garet  looked  a  woman  of  another  race  from  the 
others  in  the  station,  in  their  tailored  skirts, 
and  shirtwaists,  with  their  coats  over  arm,  and 
their  shopping  bags  firmly  clutched.  It  was  a 
warm  morning,  and  feminine  Fairb ridge's  ideaC 
of  a  suitable  costume  for  a  New  York  shopping 
trip  was  a  tailored  suit,  and  a  shirtwaist,  and 
as  a  rule,  the  shirtwaist  did  not  fit.  Margaret 
never  wore  shirtwaists, — she  understood  that 
she  was  too  short  unless  she  combined  a  white 
skirt  with  a  waist.  Margaret  would  have 
broken  a  commandment  with  less  hesitation 
than  she  would  have  broken  the  line  of  her 
graceful  little  figure  with  two  violently  con 
trasting  colours.  Mrs.  Sturtevant  in  a  grey 
skirt  and  an  elaborate  white  waist,  which  em- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         129 

phasised  her  large  bust,  looked  ridiculous  be 
side  tbis  fair,  elegant  little  Margaret,  although 
her  clothes  bad  in  reality  cost  more.  Wilbur 
watched  his  wife  as  she  talked  sweetly  with  the 
other  woman,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  the 
pride  of  possession.  When  they  were  on  the 
train  and  he  sat  by  himself  in  the  smoker,  hav 
ing  left  Margaret  with  Mrs.  Sturtevant,  his 
heart  continued  to  feel  warm  with  elation.  He 
waited  to  assist  his  wife  off  the  train  at  Jersey 
City  and  realised  it  a  trial  that  he  could  not 
cross  the  river  on  the  same  ferry.  Margaret 
despised  the  tube  and  he  wished  for  the  short 
breath  of  sea  air  which  he  would  get  on  the 
Courtland  ferry.  He  glanced  after  her  re 
treating  black  skirts  with  the  glimpses  of  yel 
low,  regretfully,  before  he  turned  his  back  and 
turned  toward  his  own  slip.  And  he  glanced 
the  more  regretfully  because  this  morning,  with 
all  his  admiration  of  his  wife,  he  had  a  dim 
sense  of  something  puzzling  which  arose  like  a 
cloud  of  mystery  between  them. 

Wilbur  Edes  sailing  across  the  river  had, 
however,  no  conception  of  the  change  which  had 
begun  in  his  little  world.  It  was  only  a  shake 


130         .THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

of  the  kaleidoscope  of  an  unimportant  life,  re 
sulting  in  a  different  combination  of  atoms,  but 
to  each  individual  it  would  be  a  tremendous 
event  partaking  of  the  nature  of  a  cataclysm. 
That  morning  he  had  seen  upon  Margaret's* 
charming  face  an  expression  which  made  it 
seem  as  the  face  of  a  stranger.  He  tried  to  dis 
miss  the  matter  from  his  mind.  He  told  him 
self  that  it  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the 
light  or  that  she  had  pinned  on  her  hat  at  a 
different  angle.  Women  are  so  perplexing, 
and  their  attire  alters  them  so  strangely.  But 
Wilbur  Edes  had  reason  to  be  .puzzled.  Mar 
garet  had  looked  and  really  was  different.  In 
a  little  while  she  had  become  practically 
a  different  woman.  Of  course,  she  had  only 
developed  possibilities  which  had  always  been 
dormant  within  her,  but  they  had  been  so 
dormant,  that  they  had  not  been  to  any 
mortal  perception  endowed  with  life.  Hitherto 
Margaret  had  walked  along  the  straight 
and  narrow  way,  sometimes,  it  is  true, 
jostling  circumstances  and  sometimes  being 
jostled  by  them,  yet  keeping  to  the  path.  Now 
she  had  turned  her  feet  into  that  broad  way 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         131 

wherein  there  is  room  for  the  utmost  self  which 
is  in  us  all.  Henceforth  husband  and  wife 
would  walk  apart  in  a  spiritual  sense,  unless 
there  should  come  a  revolution  in  the  character 
of  the  wife,  who  was  the  stepper  aside. 

Margaret  seated  comfortably  on  the  ferry 
boat,  her  little  feet  crossed  so  discreetly  that 
only  a  glimpse  of  the  yellow  fluff  beneath  was 
visible,  was  conscious  of  a  not  unpleasurable 
exhilaration.  She  might  and  she  might  not  be 
about  to  do  something  which  would  place  her 
distinctly  outside  the  pale  which  had  hence 
forth  enclosed  her  little  pleasance  of  life. 
Were  she  to  cross  that  pale,  she  felt  that  it 
might  be  distinctly  amusing.  Margaret  was 
not  a  wicked  woman,  but  virtue,  not  virtue  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  but  straight 
walking  ahead  according  to  the  ideas  of  Fair- 
bridge,  had  come  to  drive  her  at  times  to  the 
verge  of  madness.  Then,  too,  there  was  always 
that  secret  terrible  self-love  and  ambition  of 
hers,  never  satisfied,  always  defeated  by  petty 
weapons.  Margaret,  sitting  as  gracefully  as  a 
beautiful  cat,  on  the  ferry  boat  that  morning 
realised  the  vindictive  working  of  her  claws, 


132         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

and  her  impulse  to  strike  at  her  odds  of  life, 
and  she  derived  therefrom  an  unholy  exhilara 
tion. 

She  got  her  taxicab  on  the  other  side  and 
leaned  back,  catching  frequent  glances  of  ad 
miration,  and  rode  pleasurably  to  the  regal 
up-town  hotel  which  was  the  home  of  Miss 
Martha  Wallingford,  while  in  the  city.  She, 
upon  her  arrival,  entered  the  hotel  with  an  air 
which  caused  a  stir  among  bell  boys.  Then  she 
entered  a  reception  room  and  sat  down,  dis 
posing  herself  with  slow  grace.  Margaret 
gazed  about  her  and  waited.  There  were  only 
three  people  in  the  room,  one  man  and  two 
ladies,  one  quite  young — a  mere  girl — the  other 
from  the  resemblance  and  superior  age,  evi 
dently  her  mother.  The  man  was  young  and 
almost  vulgarly  well-groomed.  He  had  given 
a  glance  at  Margaret  as  she  entered,  a  glance  of 
admiration  tempered  with  the  consideration 
that  in  spite  of  her  grace  and  beauty,  she  was 
probably  older  than  himself.  Then  he  contin 
ued  to  gaze  furtively  at  the  young  girl  who  sat 
demurely,  with  eyes  downcast  beneath  a  soft, 
wild  tangle  of  dark  hair,  against  which  some 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         133 

pink  roses  and  a  blue  feather  on  her  hat  showed 
fetchingly.  She  was  very  well  dressed,  evi 
dently  a  well-guarded  young  thing  from  one  of 
the  summer  colonies.  The  mother,  high  cor 
seted,  and  elegant  in  dark  blue  lines,  which 
made  only  a  graceful  concession  to  age,  without 
fairly  admitting  it,  never  allowed  one  glance  of 
the  young  man's  to  escape  her.  She  also  saw 
her  slender  young  daughter  with  every  sense 
in  her  body  and  mind. 

Margaret  looked  away  from  them.  The 
elder  woman  had  given  her  costume  an  appre 
ciative,  and  herself  a  supercilious  glance,  which 
had  been  met  with  one  which  did  not  seem  to 
recognise  her  visibility.  Margaret  was  not 
easily  put  down  by  another  woman.  She 
stared  absently  at  the  ornate  and  weary  decora 
tions  of  the  room.  It  was  handsome,  but  tire 
some,  as  everybody  who  entered  realised,  and 
as,  no  doubt,  the  decorator  had  found  out.  It 
was  a  ready-made  species  of  room,  with  no 
heart  in  it,  in  spite  of  the  harmonious  colour 
scheme  and  really  artistic  detail. 

Presently  the  boy  with  the  silver  tray  entered 
and  approached  Margaret.  The  young  man 


134         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

stared  openly  at  her.  He  began  to  wonder  if 
she  were  not  younger  than  he  had  thought. 
The  girl  never  raised  her  downcast  eyes;  the 
older  woman  cast  one  swift  sharp  glance  at  her. 
The  boy  murmured  so  inaudibly  that  Margaret 
barely  heard,  and  she  rose  and  followed  him  as 
he  led  the  way  to  the  elevator.  Miss  Walling- 
ford,  who  was  a  young  Western  woman  and  a 
rising,  if  not  already  arisen  literary  star,  had 
signified  her  willingness  to  receive  Mrs.  Wil 
bur  Edes  in  her  own  private  sitting-room. 
Margaret  was  successful  so  far.  She  had  pen 
cilled  on  her  card,  "Can  you  see  me  on  a  mat 
ter  of  importance!  I  am  not  connected  with 
the  Press,"  and  the  young  woman  who  es 
teemed  nearly  everything  of  importance,  and 
was  afraid  of  the  Press,  had  agreed  at  once  to 
see  her.  Miss  Martha  Wallingford  was  stay 
ing  in  the  hotel  with  an  elderly  aunt,  against 
whose  rule  she  rebelled  in  spite  of  her  youth 
and  shyness,  which  apparently  made  it  impos 
sible  for  her  to  rebel  against  anybody,  and  the 
aunt  had  retired  stiffly  to  her  bedroom  when  her 
niece  said  positively  that  she  would  see  her 
caller. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         135 

"You  don't  know  who  she  is  and  I  promised 
your  Pa  when  we  started  that  I  wouldn't  let 
you  get  acquainted  with  folks  unless  I  knew  all 
about  them,"  the  aunt  had  said  and  the  niece, 
the  risen  star,  had  set  her  mouth  hard.  "We 
haven't  seen  a  soul  except  those  newspaper 
men,  and  I  know  everyone  of  them  is  married, 
and  those  two  newspaper  women  who  told  about 
my  sleeves  being  out  of  date,"  said  Martha 
Wallingford,  "and  this  Mrs.  Edes  may  be  real 
nice.  I  'm  going  to  see  her  anyhow.  We  came 
so  late  in  the  season  that  I  believe  everybody 
in  New  York  worth  seeing  has  gone  away  and 
this  lady  has  come  in  from  the  country  and  it 
may  lead  to  my  having  a  good  time  after  all. 
I  haven't  had  much  of  a  time  so  far,  and  you 
know  it,  Aunt  Susan." 

"How  you  talk,  Martha  Wallingford! 
Haven't  you  been  to  the  theatre  every  night 
and  Coney  Island,  and  the  Metropolitan  and — 
everything  there  is  to  see?" 

"There  isn't  much  to  see  in  New  York  any 
way  except  the  people,"  returned  the  niece. 
"People  are  all  I  care  for  anyway,  and  I 
don't  call  the  people  I  have  seen  worth  count- 


136         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

ing.  They  only  came  to  make  a  little  money 
out  of  me  and  my  sleeves.  I  am  glad  I  got  this 
dress  at  McCreery's.  These  sleeves  are  all 
right.  If  this  Mrs.  Edes  should  be  a  news 
paper  woman,  she  can't  make  fun  of  these 
sleeves  anyway." 

"You  paid  an  awful  price  for  that  dress," 
said  her  aunt. 

"I  don't  care.  I  got  such  a  lot  for  my  book 
that  I  might  as  well  have  a  little  out  of  it,  and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Aunt  Susan,  that 
South  Mordan,  Illinois,  may  be  a  very  nice 
place,  but  it  does  not  keep  up  with  New  York 
fashions.  I  really  did  not  have  a  decent  thing 
to  wear  when  I  started.  Miss  Slocumb  did  as 
well  as  she  knew  how,  but  her  ideas  are  about 
three  years  behind  New  York.  I  didn't  know 
myself,  how  should  I  ?  And  you  didn  't,  and  as 
for  Pa,  he  would  think  everything  I  had  on  was 
stylish  if  it  dated  back  to  the  ark.  You  ought 
to  have  bought  that  mauve  silk  for  yourself. 
You  have  money  enough;  you  know  you  have, 
Aunt  Susan." 

"I  have  money  enough,  thanks  to  my  dear 
husband's  saving  all  his  life,  but  it  is  not  going 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         137 

to  be  squandered  on  dress  by  me,  now  lie  is  dead 
and  gone." 

"I  would  have  bought  the  dress  for  you  my 
self,  then,"  said  the  niece. 

"No,  thank  you,"  returned  the  aunt  with  as 
perity.  "I  have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  be 
ing  beholden  to  you  for  my  clothes  and  I  am 
not  going  to  begin  now.  I  didn't  want  that 
dress  anyway.  I  always  hated  purple." 

"It  wasn't  purple,  it  was  mauve." 

"I  call  purple,  purple,  I  don't  call  it  anything 
else!"  Then  the  aunt  retreated  precipitately 
before  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  and  en 
trenched  herself  in  her  bedroom,  where  she 
stood  listening. 

Margaret  Edes  treated  the  young  author  witK 
the  respect  which  she  really  deserved,  for  tal 
ent  she  possessed  in  such  a  marked  degree  as 
to  make  her  phenomenal,  and  the  phenomenal 
is  always  entitled  to  consideration  of  some  sort. 

"Miss  Wallingfordl"  murmured  Margaret, 
and  she  gave  an  impression  of  obeisance;  this 
charming  elegantly  attired  lady  before  the 
Western  girl.  Martha  Wallingford  coloured 
high  with  delight  and  admiration. 


138         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Yes,  I  am  Miss  Wallingford,"  she  replied 
and  asked  her  caller  to  be  seated.  Margaret 
sat  down  facing  her.  The  young  author 
shuffled  in  her  chair  like  a  school  girl.  She  was 
an  odd  combination  of  enormous  egotism  and 
the  most  painful  shyness.  She  realised  at  a 
glance  that  she  herself  was  provincial  and  piti 
fully  at  a  disadvantage  personally  before  this 
elegant  vision,  and  her  personality  was  in  real 
ity  more  precious  to  her  than  her  talent. 

"I  can  not  tell  you  what  a  great  pleasure 
and  privilege  this  is  for  me,"  said  Margaret, 
and  her  blue  eyes  had  an  expression  of  admir 
ing  rapture.  The  girl  upon  whom  the  eyes 
were  fixed,  blushed  and  giggled  and  tossed  her 
head  with  a  sudden  show  of  pride.  She  quite 
agreed  that  it  was  a  pleasure  and  privilege  for 
Margaret  to  see  her,  the  author  of  Hearts 
Astray,  even  if  Margaret  was  herself  so  charm 
ing  and  so  provoldngly  well  dressed.  Miss 
Martha  Wallingford  did  not  hide  her  light  of 
talent  under  a  bushel  with  all  her  shyness,  which 
was  not  really  shyness  at  all  but  a  species  of 
rather  sullen  pride  and  resentment  because  she 
was  so  well  aware  that  she  could  not  do  well 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         139 

the  things  which  were  asked  of  her  and  had  not 
mastered  the  art  of  dress  and  self  poise. 

Therefore,  Martha,  with  the  delight  of  her 
own  achievements  full  upon  her  face,  which  was 
pretty,  although  untutored,  regarded  her  visi 
tor  with  an  expression  which  almost  made  Mar 
garet  falter.  It  was  probably  the  absurd 
dressing  of  the  girl's  hair  which  restored  Mar 
garet's  confidence  in  her  scheme.  Martha 
Wallingford  actually  wore  a  frizzled  bang,  very 
finely  frizzled  too,  and  her  hair  was  strained 
from  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  it  seemed  im 
possible  that  a  young  woman  who  knew  no  bet 
ter  than  to  arrange  her  hair  in  such  fashion, 
should  not  be  amenable  to  Margaret's  plan. 
The  plan,  moreover,  sounded  very  simple,  ex 
cept  for  the  little  complications  which  might 
easily  arise.  Margaret  smiled  into  the  pretty 
face  under  the  fuzz  of  short  hair. 

"My  dear  Miss  Wallingford,"  said  she,  "I 
have  come  this  morning  to  beg  a  favour.  I 
hope  you  will  not  refuse  me,  although  I  am  such 
an  entire  stranger.  If,  unfortunately,  my 
intimate  friend,  Mrs.  Fay-Wyman,  of  whom  I 
assume  that  you  of  course  know,  even  if  you 


140         THE  BUTTEBFLY  HOUSE 

have  not  met  her,  as  you  may  easily  have  done, 
or  her  daughter,  Miss  Edith  Fay-Wyman,  had 
not  left  town  last  week  for  their  country  house, 
Eose-In-Flower,  at  Hyphen-by-the-Sea,  a  most 
delightful  spot.  Mr.  Edes  and  I  have  spent 
several  week  ends  there.  I  am  prevented»from 
spending  longer  than  week  ends  because  I  am 
kept  at  home  by  my  two  darling  twin  daugh 
ters.  Mrs.  Fay-Wyman  is  a  sweet  woman  and 
I  do  so  wish  I  could  have  brought  her  here  to 
day.  I  am  sure  you  would  at  once  fall  madly 
in  love  with  her  and  also  with  her  daughter, 
Miss  Edith  Fay-Wyman,  such  a  sweet  girl, 
and — "  But  here  Margaret  was  unexpectedly, 
even  rudely  interrupted  by  Miss  Wallingford, 
who  looked  at  her  indignantly. 

"I  never  fall  in  love  with  women,'"  stated 
that  newly  risen  literary  star  abruptly,  "whyj 
should  I?  What  does  it  amount  to?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  cried  Margaret,  "when  you 
are  a  little  older  you  will  find  that  it  amounts- 
to  very  much.  There  is  a  soul  sympathy, 
and—" 

"I  don't  think  that  I  care  much  about  soul 
sympathy,"  stated  Miss  Wallingford,  who  was 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         141 

beginning  to  be  angrily  bewildered  by  her 
guest's  long  sentences,  which  so  far  seemed  to 
have  no  point  as  far  as  she  herself  was  con 
cerned. 

Margaret  started  a  little.  Again  the  doubt 
seized  her  if  she  were  not  making  a  mistake, 
undertaking  more  than  she  could  well  carry 
through,  for  this  shy  authoress  was  fast  devel 
oping  unexpected  traits.  However,  Margaret, 
once  she  had  started,  was  not  easily  turned 
back.  She  was  as  persistently  clinging  as  a 
sweet  briar. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 
like  trickling  honey,  "only  wait  until  you  are 
a  little  older  and  you  will  find  that  you  do  care, 
care  very,  very  much.  The  understanding  and 
sympathy  of  other  women  will  become  very 
sweet  to  you.  It  is  so  pure  and  ennobling,  so 
free  from  all  material  taint." 

"I  have  seen  a  great  many  women  who  were 
perfect  cats,'\  stated  Miss  Martha  Walling- 
ford. 

"Wait  until  you  are  older,"  said  Margaret 
again  and  her  voice  seemed  fairly  dissolving 
into  some  spiritual  liquid  of  divine  sweetness. 


142         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Wait  until  you  are  older,  my  dear.  You  are 
very  young,  so  young  to  have  accomplished  a 
wonderful  work  which  will  live." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Martha  Wallingford,  and 
as  she  spoke  she  fixed  pitiless  shrewd  young 
eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  other  woman,  which 
did  not  show  at  its  best,  in  spite  of  veil  and  the 
velvety  darkness  of  hat-shadow.  This  hotel 
sitting-room  was  full  of  garish  cross  lights. 
"Oh,  well,"  said  Martha  Wallingford,  "of 
course,  I  don't  know  what  may  happen  if  I  live 
to  be  old,  as  old  as  you." 

Margaret  Edes  felt  like  a  photograph  proof 
before  the  slightest  attempt  at  finish  had  been 
made.  Those  keen  young  eyes  conveyed  the 
impression  of  convex  mirrors.  She  restrained 
an  instinctive  impulse  to  put  a  hand  before  her 
face,  she  had  an  odd  helpless  sensation  before 
the  almost  brutal,  clear-visioned  young  thing. 
Again  she  shrank  a  little  from  her  task,  again 
her  spirit  reasserted  itself.  She  moved  and 
brought  her  face  somewhat  more  into  the 
shadow.  Then  she  spoke  again.  She  wisely 
dropped  the  subject  of  feminine  affinities.  She 
plunged  at  once  into  the  object  of  her  visit, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         143 

which  directly  concerned  Miss  Martha  Walling- 
ford,  and  Margaret,  who  was  as  astute  in  her 
way  as  the  girl,  knew  that  she  was  entirely  right 
in  assuming  that  Martha  Wallingford  was 
more  interested  in  herself  than  anything  else 
in  the  world. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you 
at  once  why  I  intruded  upon  you  this  morn 
ing." 

"Please  do,"  said  Martha  Wallingford. 

"As  I  said  before,  I  deeply  regret  that  I  was 
unable  to  bring  some  well-known  person,  Mrs. 
Fay-Wyman,  for  instance,  to  make  us  ac 
quainted  in  due  form,  but — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  that,"  said 
Martha.  "What  is  it?" 

Margaret  again  started  a  little.  She  had  not 
expected  anything  like  this.  The  mental  pic 
ture  which  she  had  formed  of  Martha  Walling 
ford,  the  young  literary  star,  semed  to  undergo 
a  transformation  akin  to  an  explosion,  out  of 
which  only  one  feature  remained  intact — thei 
book,  "Hearts  Astray."  If  Miss  Wallingford 
had  not  possessed  a  firm  foundation  in  that 
volume,  it  is  entirely  possible  that  Margaret 


144         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

might  have  abandoned  her  enterprise.  As  it 
was,  after  a  little  gasp  she  went  on. 

"I  did  so  wish  to  assure  you  in  person  of  my 
great  admiration  for  your  wonderful  book," 
said  she.  Martha  Wallingford  made  no  reply. 
She  had  an  expression  of  utter  acquiescence 
in  the  admiration,  also  of  having  heard  that 
same  thing  so  many  times,  that  she  was  some 
what  bored  by  it.  She  waited  with  questioning 
eyes  upon  Margaret's  face. 

"And  I  wondered,"  said  Margaret,  "if  you 
would  consider  it  too  informal,  if  I  ventured 
to  beg  you  to  be  my  guest  at  my  home  in  Fair- 
bridge  next  Thursday  and  remain  the  week 
end,  over  Sunday.  It  would  give  me  so  much 
pleasure,  and  Fairbridge  is  a  charming  little 
village  and  there  are  really  many  interesting 
people  there  whom  I  think  you  would  enjoy,  and 
as  for  them — !"  Margaret  gave  a  slight  roll 
to  her  eyes — "they  would  be  simply  over 
whelmed.  ' ' 

"I  should  like  to  come  very  much,  thank 
you,"  said  Martha  Wallingford. 

Margaret  beamed.  "Oh,  my  3ear,"  she 
cried,  "I  can  not  tell  you  how  much  joy  your 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         145 

prompt  and  warm  response  gives  me.  And — " 
Margaret  looked  about  her  rather  vaguely, 
"you  are  not  alone  here,  of  course.  You  have 
a  maid,  or  perhaps,  your  mother — " 

"My  Aunt  Susan  is  with  me,"  said  Miss 
Wallingford,  "but  there  is  no  use  inviting  her. 
She  hates  going  away  for  a  few  days.  She 
says  it  is  just  as  much  trouble  packing  as  it 
would  be  to  go  for  a  month.  There  is  no  use 
even  thinking  of  her,  but  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  come." 

Margaret  hesitated.  "May  I  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  presented  to  your  aunt?"  she 
inquired. 

"Aunt  Susan  is  out  shopping,"  lied  Miss 
Martha  Wallingford.  Aunt  Susan  was  clad  in  a 
cotton  crepe  wrapper,  and  Martha  knew  that 
she  would  think  it  quite  good  enough  for  her 
to  receive  anybody  in,  and  that  she  could  not 
convince  her  to  the  contrary.  It  was  only  re 
cently  that  Martha  herself  had  become  con 
verted  from  morning  wrappers,  and  the  reac 
tion  was  violent.  "The  idea  of  a  woman  like 
this  Mrs.  Edes  seeing  Aunt  Susan  in  that  awful 
pink  crepe  wrapper ! ' '  she  said  to  herself.  She 


146         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

hoped  Aunt  Susan  was  not  listening,  and  would 
not  make  a  forcible  entry  into  the  room.  Aunt 
Susan  in  moments  of  impulse  was  quite  capable 
of  such  coups.  Martha  glanced  rather  appre 
hensively  toward  the  door  leading  into  the  bed 
room  but  it  did  not  open.  Aunt  Susan  was  in 
deed  listening  and  she  was  rigid  with  indigna 
tion,  but  in  truth,  she  did  not  want  to  accompany 
her  niece  upon  this  projected  visit,  and  she  was 
afraid  of  being  drawn  into  such  a  step  should 
she  present  herself.  Aunt  Susan  did  dislike 
making  the  effort  of  a  visit  for  a  few  days  only. 
Martha  had  told  the  truth.  It  was  very  hot, 
and  the  elder  woman  was  not  very  strong. 
Moreover,  she  perceived  that  Martha  did  not 
want  her  and  there  would  be  the  complication 
of  kicking  against  the  pricks  of  a  very  deter 
mined  character,  which  had  grown  more  deter 
mined  since  her  literary  success.  In  fact,  Aunt 
Susan  stood  in  a  slight  awe  of  her  niece  since 
that  success,  for  all  her  revolts  which  were  su 
perficial.  Therefore,  she  remained  upon  her 
side  of  the  door  which  she  did  not  open  until 
the  visitor  had  departed  after  making  definite 
arrangements  concerning  trains  and  meetings. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         147 

Then  Aunt  Susan  entered  the  room  with  a  cloud 
of  pink  crepe  in  her  wake. 

"Who  was  that?"  she  demanded  of  Martha. 

"Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes,"  replied  her  niece,  and 
she  aped  Margaret  to  perfection  as  she  added, 
"and  a  most  charming  woman,  most  charm 
ing.  " 

"What  did  she  want  you  to  do?"  inquired 

the  aunt. 

"Now,  Aunt  Susan,"  replied  the  niece, 
"what  is  the  use  of  going  over  it  all?  You 
heard  every  single  thing  she  said." 

"I  did  hear  her  ask  after  me,"  said  the  aunt 
unabashed,  "and  I  heard  you  tell  a  lie  about  it. 
You  told  her  I  had  gone  out  shopping  and  you 
knew  I  was  right  in  the  next  room. ' ' 

"I  didn't  mean  to  have  you  come  in  and  see 
a  woman  dressed  like  that  one,  in  your  wrap 
per." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  wrapper?" 

Martha  said  nothing. 

"Are  you  going?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"You  know  that  too." 

"I  don't  know  what  your  Pa  would  say," 
remarked  Aunt  Susan,  but  rather  feebly,  for 


148         THE  BUTTEBFLY  HOUSE 

she  had  a  vague  idea  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
accompany  her  niece  and  she  was  determined 
to  shirk  it. 

"I  don't  see  how  Pa  can  say  much  of  any 
thing  since  he  is  in  South  Mordan,  Illinois,  and 
won't  know  about  it,  unless  you  telegraph,  until 
next  week,"  said  Martha  calmly.  "Now,  come 
along,  Aunt  Susan,  and  get  dressed.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  get  that  beautiful  white 
silk  dress  we  looked  at  yesterday.  It  did  not 
need  any  alteration  and  I  think  I  shall  buy  that 
pearl  and  amethyst  necklace  at  Tiffany's.  I 
know  Mrs.  Edes  will  have  an  evening  party  and 
there  will  be  gentlemen,  and  what  is  the  use  of 
my  making  so  much  money  out  of  Hearts  Astray 
if  I  don't  have  a  few  things  I  want?  Hurry; 
and  get  dressed." 

"I  don't  see  why  this  wrapper  isn't  plenty 
good  enough  for  a  few  errands  at  two  or  three 
stores,"  said  the  aunt  sulkily,  but  she  yielded 
to  Martha 's  imperative  demand  that  she  change 
her  wrapper  for  her  black  satin  immediately. 

Meantime  Margaret  on  her  way  down  town 
to  the  ferry  was  conscious  of  a  slight  consterna 
tion  at  what  she  had  done.  She  understood 


THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE         149 

that  in  this  young  woman  was  a  feminine  ele 
ment  which  radically  differed  from  any  which 
had  come  within  her  ken.  She,  however,  was 
determined  to  go  on.  The  next  day  invitations 
were  issued  to  the  Zenith  Club  for  the  following 
•Friday,  from  four  to  six,  and  also  one  to  din 
ner  that  evening  to  four  men  and  five  women. 
She  planned  for  Sunday  an  automobile  ride; 
she  was  to  hire  the  car  from  the  Axminister 
garage,  and  a  high  tea  afterward.  Poor  Mar 
garet  did  all  in  her  power  to  make  her  scheme 
a  success,  but  always  she  had  that  chilling 
doubt  of  her  power.  Miss  Martha  Walling- 
ford  had  impressed  her  as  being  a  young  wo 
man  capable  of  swift  and  unexpected  move 
ments.  She  was  rather  afraid  of  her  but  she 
did  not  confess  her  fear  to  Wilbur.  When  he 
inquired  genially  what  kind  of  a  girl  the 
authoress  was,  she  replied:  "Oh,  charming,  of 
course,  but  the  poor  child  does  not  know  how 
to  do  up  her  hair."  However,  when  Martha 
arrived  Thursday  afternoon  and  Margaret  met 
her  at  the  station,  she,  at  a  glance,  discovered 
that  the  poor  child  had  discovered  how  to  do 
up  her  hair.  Some  persons'  brains  work  in  a 


150         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

great  many  directions  and  Martha  Walling- 
ford's  was  one  of  them.  Somehow  or  other, 
she  had  contrived  to  dispose  of  her  tightly 
frizzed  fringe,  and  her  very  pretty  hair 
swept  upward  from  a  forehead  which  was 
both  intellectual  and  beautiful.  She  was 
well  dressed  too.  She  had  drawn  heavily 
upon  her  royalty  revenue.  She  had  worked 
hard  and  spent  a  good  deal  during  the 
short  time  since  Margaret's  call,  and  her  brain 
had  served  her  body  well.  She  stepped  across 
the  station  platform  with  an  air.  She  carried 
no  provincial  bag — merely  a  dainty  little  affair 
mounted  in  gold  which  matched  her  gown — and 
she  had  brought  a  small  steamer  trunk. 

Margaret's  heart  sank  more  and  more,  but 
she  conducted  her  visitor  to  her  little  carriage 
and  ordered  the  man  to  drive  home,  and  when 
arrived  there,  showed  Martha  her  room.  She 
had  a  faint  hope  that  the  room  might  intimi 
date  this  Western  girl,  but  instead  of  intimida 
tion  there  was  exultation.  She  looked  about 
her  very  coolly,  but  afterward,  upon  her  return 
to  East  Mordan,  Illinois,  she  bragged  a  good 
deal  about  it.  The  room  was  really  very 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         151 

charming  and  rather  costly.  The  furniture 
•was  genuine  First  Empire;  the  walls,  which 
were  hung  with  paper  covered  with  garlands  of 
roses,  were  decorated  with  old  engravings; 
there  was  a  quantity  of  Dresden  ware  and  there 
was  a  little  tiled  bathroom.  Over  a  couch  in 
the  bedroom  lay  a  kimona  of  white  silk  em 
broidered  with  pink  roses.  Afterward  Martha 
made  cruel  fun  of  her  Aunt's  pink  crepe  and 
made  her  buy  a  kimona. 

"  Shall  I  send  up  my  maid  to  assist  yon  in 
unpacking,  Miss  Wallingf ord  ? "  inquired  Mar 
garet,  inwardly  wondering  how  the  dinner 
would  be  managed  if  the  offer  were  accepted. 
To  her  relief,  Martha  gave  her  an  offended 
stare.  "No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Edes,"  said  she, 
"I  never  like  servants,  especially  other  peo 
ples',  mussing  up  my  things." 

When  Margaret  had  gone,  Martha  looked 
about  her,  and  her  mouth  was  frankly  wide 
open.  She  had  never  seen  such  exquisite 
daintiness  and  it  daunted  her,  although  she 
would  have  died  rather  than  admit  it.  She 
thought  of  her  own  bedroom  at  home  in  East 
Mordan,  Illinois,  with  its  old  black  walnut 


152         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

chamber  set  and  framed  photographs  and 
chromos,  but  she  maintained  a  sort  of  defiant 
pride  in  it  even  to  herself.  In  Martha  Wal- 
lingford's  character  there  was  an  element  par 
taking  of  the  nature  of  whalebone,  yielding, 
but  practically  unbreakable,  and  sometimes 
wholly  unyielding.  Martha  proceeded  to  ar 
ray  herself  for  dinner.  She  had  not  a  doubt 
that  it  would  be  a  grand  affair.  She  therefore 
did  not  hesitate  about  the  white  silk,  which  was 
a  robe  of  such  splendour  that  it  might  not  have 
disgraced  a  court.  It  showed  a  great  deal 
of  her  thin,  yet  pretty  girlish  neck,  and  it  had 
a  very  long  train.  She  had  a  gold  fillet 
studded  with  diamonds  for  her  hair — that  hair 
which  was  now  dressed  according  to  the  very 
latest  mode — a  mode  which  was  startling,  yet 
becoming,  and  she  clasped  around  her  throat 
the  Tiffany  necklace,  and  as  a  crowning  touch, 
put  on  long  white  gloves.  When  she  appeared 
upon  the  verandah  where  Margaret  sat  dressed 
in  a  pretty  lingerie  gown  with  Wilbur  in  a 
light  grey  business  suit,  the  silence  could  be 
heard.  Then  there  was  one  double  gasp  of  ad 
miration  from  Maida  and  Adelaide  in  their 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         153 

white  frocks  and  blue  ribbons.  They  looked  at 
the  visitor  with  positive  adoration,  but  she 
flushed  hotly.  She  was  a  very  quick-witted 
girl.  Margaret  recovered  herself,  presented 
Wilbur,  and  shortly,  they  went  in  to  dinner,  but 
it  was  a  ghastly  meal.  Martha  Wallingford  in 
her  unsuitable  splendour  was  frankly,  as  she 
put  it  afterward,  "hopping  mad,"  and  Wilbur 
was  unhappy  and  Margaret  aghast,  although 
apparently  quite  cool.  There  was  not  a  guest 
besides  Martha.  The  dinner  was  simple.  Aft 
erward  it  seemed  too  farcical  to  ask  a  guest  at 
tired  like  a  young  princess  to  go  out  on  the 
verandah  and  lounge  in  a  wicker  chair,  while 
Wilbur  smoked.  Then  Annie  Eustace  ap 
peared  and  Margaret  was  grateful.  "Dear 
Annie, "  she  said,  after  she  had  introduced  the 
two  girls,  "I  am  so  glad  you  came  over.  Come 


in." 


"It  is  pleasanter  on  the  verandah,  isn't  it?" 
began  Annie,  then  she  caught  Margaret's  ex 
pressive  glance  at  the  magnificent  white  silk. 
They  all  sat  stiffly  in  Margaret's  pretty  draw 
ing-room.  Martha  said  she  didn't  play  bridge 
and  upon  Annie's  timid  suggestion  of  pinocle, 


154         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

said  she  had  never  heard  of  it.  Wilbur  dared 
not  smoke.  All  that  wretched  evening  they 
sat  there.  The  situation  was  too  much  for 
Margaret,  that  past  mistress  of  situations,  and 
her  husband  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  ap 
proaching  terror  and  also  wrath  whenever  he 
glanced  at  the  figure  in  sumptuous  white,  the 
figure  expressing  sulkiness  in  every  feature 
and  motion.  Margaret  was  unmistakably 
sulky  as  the  evening  wore  on  and  nobody  came 
except  this  other  girl  of  whom  she  took  no  no 
tice  at  all.  She  saw  that  she  was  pretty, 
her  hair  badly  arranged  and  she  was  ill- 
dressed,  and  that  was  enough  for  her.  She  felt 
it  to  be  an  insult  that  these  people  had  invited 
her  and  asked  nobody  to  meet  her,  Martha  Wal- 
lingford,  whose  name  was  in  all  the  papers,  at 
tired  in  this  wonderful  white  gown.  When 
Annie  Eustace  arose  to  go,  she  arose  too  with 
a  peremptory  motion. 

"I  rather  guess  I  will  go  to  bed,"  said  Mar 
tha  Wallingford. 

"You  must  be  weary,"  said  Margaret. 

"I  am  not  tired,"  said  Martha  Wallingford, 
"but  it  seems  to  me  as  dull  here  as  in  South 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         155 

Mercian,  Illinois.  I  might  as  well  go  to  bed  and 
to  sleep  as  sit  here  any  longer. " 

When  Margaret  had  returned  from  the  guest 
room,  her  husband  looked  at  her  almost  in  a  be 
wildered  fashion.  Margaret  sank  wearily  into 
a  chair.  " Isn't  she  impossible V  she  whis 
pered. 

"Did  she  think  there  was  a  dinner  party?" 
Wilbur  inquired  perplexedly. 

"I  don't  know.  It  was  ghastly.  I  did  not 
for  a  moment  suppose  she  would  dress  for  a 
party,  unless  I  told  her,  and  it  is  Emma's  night 
off  and  I  could  not  ask  people  with  only  Clara 
to  cook  and  wait." 

Wilbur  patted  his  wife's  shoulder  comfort 
ingly.  "Never  mind,  dear,"  he  said,  "when 
she  gets  her  chance  to  do  her  to-morrow's  stunt 
at  your  club,  she  will  be  all  right." 

Margaret  shivered  a  little.  She  had  dared 
say  nothing  to  Martha  about  that  "stunt." 
Was  it  possible  that  she  was  making  a  horrible 
mistake? 

The  next  day,  Martha  was  still  sulky  but  she 
did  not,  as  Margaret  feared,  announce  her  in 
tention  of  returning  at  once  to  New  York. 


156         .THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Margaret  said  quite  casually  that  she  had  in 
vited  a  few  of  the  brightest  and  most  interest 
ing  people  in  Fairhridge  to  meet  her  that  aft 
ernoon  and  Martha  became  curious,  although 
still  resentful,  and  made  no  motion  to  leave. 
She,  however,  resolved  to  make  no  further  mis 
takes  as  to  costume,  and  just  as  the  first  tide  of 
the  Zenith  Club  broke  over  Margaret's  thresh 
old,  she  appeared  clad  in  one  of  her  South 
Mordan,  Illinois,  gowns.  It  was  one  which  she 
had  tucked  into  her  trunk  in  view  of  foul 
weather.  It  was  a  hideous  thing  made  from 
two  old  gowns.  It  had  a  garish  blue  tunic 
reaching  well  below  the  hips  and  a  black  skirt 
bordered  with  blue.  Martha  had  had  it  made 
herself  from  a  pattern  after  long  study  of  the 
fashion  plates  in  a  Sunday  newspaper  and  the 
result,  although  startling,  still  half  convinced 
her.  It  was  only  after  she  had  seen  all  the 
members  of  the  Zenith  Club  seated  and  had 
gazed  at  their  costumes,  that  she  realised 
that  she  had  made  a  worse  mistake  than  tha-fc  of 
the  night  before.  To  begin  with,  the  day  was 
very  warm  and  her  gown  heavy  and  clumsy. 
The  other  ladies  were  arrayed  in  lovely  ling- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         157 

eries  or  light  silks  and  laces.  The  Zenith  Club 
was  exceedingly  well  dressed  on  that  day. 
Martha  sat  in  her  place  beside  her  hostess  and 
her  face  looked  like  a  sulky  child's.  Her  eye 
lids  were  swollen,  her  pouting  lips  dropped 
at  the  corners.  She  stiffened  her  chin  until  it 
became  double.  Margaret  was  inwardly  per 
turbed  but  she  concealed  it.  The  programme 
went  on  with  the  inevitable  singing  by  Miss 
MacDonald  and  Mrs.  Wells,  the  playing  by  Mrs. 
Jack  Evarts,  the  recitation  by  Sally  Anderson. 
Margaret  had  not  ventured  to  omit  those  fea 
tures.  Then,  Mrs.  Sturtevant  read  in  a  trem 
bling  voice  a  paper  on  Emerson.  Then  Mar 
garet  sprang  her  mines.  She  rose  and  sur 
veyed  her  audience  with  smiling  impressive- 
ness.  "Ladies,"  she  said,  and  there  was  an 
immediate  hush,  "Ladies,  I  have  the  pleasure, 
the  exceeding  pleasure  of  presenting  you  to  my 
guest,  Miss  Martha  Wallingford,  the  author  of 
Hearts  Astray.  She  will  now  speak  briefly 
to  you  upon  her  motive  in  writing  and  her 
method  of  work."  There  was  a  soft  clapping 
of  hands.  Margaret  sat  down.  She  was  quite 
pale.  Annie  Eustace  regarded  her  wonder- 


158         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

ingly.  What  had  happened  to  her  dear  Mar 
garet? 

The  people  waited.  Everybody  stared  at 
Miss  Martha  Wallingf  ord  who  had  written  that 
great  seller,  Hearts  Astray.  Martha  Wal- 
lingford  sat  perfectly  still.  Her  eyes  were  so 
downcast  that  they  gave  the  appearance  of  be 
ing  closed.  Her  pretty  face  looked  red  and 
swollen.  Everybody  waited.  She  sat  abso 
lutely  still  and  made  no  sign  except  that  of  her 
obstinate  face  of  negation.  Margaret  bent 
over  her  and  whispered.  Martha  did  not  even 
do  her  the  grace  of  a  shake  of  the  head. 

Everybody  waited  again.  Martha  Walling- 
ford  sat  so  still  that  she  gave  the  impression 
of  a  doll  made  without  speaking  apparatus. 
It  did  not  seem  as  if  she  could  even  wink. 
Then  Alice  Mendon,  who  disliked  Margaret 
Edes  and  had  a  shrewd  conjecture  as  to  the 
state  of  affairs,  but  who  was  broad  in  her  views, 
pitied  Margaret.  She  arose  with  considerable 
motion  and  spoke  to  Daisy  Shaw  at  her  right, 
and  broke  the  ghastly  silence,  and  immediately 
everything  was  in  motion  and  refreshments 
were  being  passed,  but  Martha  Wallingford, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         159 

who  had  written  Hearts  Astray,  was  not 
there  to  partake  of  them.  She  was  in  her 
room,  huddled  in  a  chair  upholstered  with 
cream  silk  strewn  with  roses;  and  she  was  in 
one  of  the  paroxysms  of  silent  rage  which  be 
longed  to  her  really  strong,  although  undis 
ciplined  nature,  and  which  was  certainly  in  this 
case  justified  to  some  degree. 

"It  was  an  outrage,"  she  said  to  herself. 
She  saw  through  it  all  now.  She  had  refused 
to  speak  or  to  read  before  all  those  women's 
clubs  and  now  this  woman  had  trapped  her, 
that  was  the  word  for  it,  trapped  her. 

As  she  sat  there,  her  sullenly  staring  angry 
eyes  saw  in  large  letters  at  the  head  of  a  col 
umn  in  a  morning  paper  on  the  table  beside  her, 
*'  'The  Poor  Lady,9  the  greatest)  anonymous 
novel  of  the  year." 

Then  she  fell  again  to  thinking  of  her  wrongs 
and  planning  how  she  should  wreak  vengeance 
upon  Margaret  Edes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MARTHA  WALLINGFOED  was  a  young  person  of 
direct  methods.  She  scorned  subterfuges. 
Another  of  her  age  and  sex  might  have  gone  to 
bed  with  a  headache,  not  she.  She  sat  abso 
lutely  still  beside  her  window,  quite  in  full  view, 
of  the  departing  members  of  the  Zenith  Club, 
had  they  taken  the  trouble  to  glance  in  that  di 
rection,  and  some  undoubtedly  did,  and  she 
remained  there;  presently  she  heard  her 
hostess's  tiny  rap  on  the  door.  Martha  did  not 
answer,  but  after  a  repeated  rap  and  wait,  Mar 
garet  chose  to  assume  that  she  did,  and  entered. 
Margaret  knelt  in  a  soft  flop  of  scented  lingerie 
beside  the  indignant  young  thing.  She  ex 
plained,  she  apologised,  she  begged,  she  im 
plored  Martha  to  put  on  that  simply  ravishing 
gown  which  she  had  worn  the  evening  before; 
she  expatiated  at  length  upon  the  charms  of  the 
people  whom  she  had  invited  to  dinner,  but 
Martha  spoke  not  at  all  until  she  was  quite 
ready.  Then  she  said  explosively,  "I  won't." 

160 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         161 

She  was  silent  after  that.  Margaret  recog 
nised  the  futility  of  further  entreaties.  She 
went  down  stairs  and  confided  in  Wilbur.  "I 
never  saw  such  an  utterly  impossible  girl/'  she 
said;  " there  she  sits  and  won't  get  dressed  and 
come  down  to  dinner. " 

"She  is  a  freak,  must  be,  most  of  these  writer 
people  are  freaks,"  said  Wilbur  sympatheti 
cally.  "Poor  old  girl,  and  I  suppose  you  have 
got  up  a  nice  dinner  too." 

"A  perfectly  charming  dinner  and  invited 
people  to  meet  her." 

"How  did  she  do  her  stunt  this  afternoon?" 

Margaret  flushed.  "None  too  well,"  she  re 
plied. 

"Oh,  well,  dear,  I  don't  see  how  you  are  to 
blame." 

"I  can  say  that  Miss  Wallingford  is  not  well, 
I  suppose,"  said  Margaret,  and  that  was  what 
she  did  say,  but  with  disastrous  results. 

Margaret,  ravishing  in  white  lace,  sprinkled 
iwith  little  gold  butterflies,  had  taken  her  place 
at  the  head  of  her  table.  Emma  was  serving 
the  first  course  and  she  was  making  her  little 
speech  concerning  the  unfortunate  indisposi- 


162         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

tion  of  her  guest  of  honour  when  she  was  sud 
denly  interrupted  by  that  guest  herself,  an  im 
age  of  sulky  wrath,  clad  in  the  blue  and  black 
costume  pertaining  to  South  Mordan,  Illinois. 

"I  am  perfectly  well.  She  is  telling  an  awful 
whopper, "  proclaimed  this  amazing  girl.  "I 
won't  dress  up  and  come  to  dinner  because  I 
won't.  She  trapped  me  into  a  woman's  club 
this  afternoon  and  tried  to  get  me  to  make  a 
speech  without  even,  telling  me  what  she  meant 
to  do  and  now  I  won't  do  anything." 

With  that  Miss  Wallingford  disappeared  and 
unmistakable  stamps  were  heard  upon  the 
stairs.  One  woman  giggled  convulsively;  an 
other  took  a  glass  of  water  and  choked.  A  man 
laughed  honestly.  Wilbur  was  quite  pale. 
Margaret  was  imperturbable.  Karl  von  Eosen, 
who  was  one  of  the  guests  and  who  sat  behind 
Annie  Eustace,  looked  at  Margaret  with  won 
der.  "Was  this  the  way  of  women?"  he 
thought.  He  did  not  doubt  for  one  minute  that 
the  Western  girl  had  spoken  the  truth.  It  had 
been  brutal  and  homely,  but  it  had  been  the 
truth.  Little  Annie  Eustace,  who  had  been  al 
lowed  to  come  to  a  dinner  party  for  the  first 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         163 

time  in  her  life  and  who  looked  quite  charming 
in  an  old,  much  mended,  but  very  fine  India 
muslin  and  her  grandmother's  corals,  did  not, 
on  the  contrary,  believe  one  word  of  Miss  Wal- 
lingford's. 

Her  sympathy  was  all  with  her  Margaret. 
It  was  a  horrible  situation  and  her  dear  Mar 
garet  was  the  victim  of  her  own  hospitality. 
She  looked  across  the  table  at  Alice  Mendon 
for  another  sympathiser,  but  Alice  was  talk 
ing  busily  to  the  man  at  her  right  about  a  new 
book.  She  had  apparently  not  paid  much  at 
tention.  Annie  wondered  how  it  could  have 
escaped  her.  That  horrid  girl  had  spoken  so 
loudly.  She  looked  up  at  Von  Rosen.  "I  am 
so  sorry  for  poor  Margaret,"  she  whispered. 
Von  Rosen  looked  down  at  her  very  gently. 
This  little  girPs  belief  in  her  friend  was  like  a 
sacred  lily,  not  to  be  touched  or  soiled. 

"Yes,"  he  said  and  Annie  smiled  up  at  him 
comfortably.  Von  Rosen  was  glad  she  sat  be 
side  him.  He  thought  her  very  lovely,  and 
there  was  a  subtle  suggestion  of  something  be 
sides  loveliness.  He  thought  that  daintily 
mended  India  muslin  exquisite,  and  also  the 


164         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

carved  corals, — bracelets  on  the  slender  wrists, 
a  necklace — resting  like  a  spray  of  flowers  on 
the  girlish  neck,  a  comb  in  the  soft  hair  which 
Annie  had  arranged  becomingly  and  covered 
from  her  aunt's  sight  with  a  lace  scarf.  She 
felt  deceitful  about  her  hair,  but  how  could  she 
help  it? 

The  dinner  was  less  ghastly  than  could  have 
been  expected  after  the  revelation  of  the  guest 
of  honour  and  the  blank  consternation  of  the 
host,  who  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  state 
of  mind.  Poor  Wilbur  had  no  society  tricks. 
Alice  Mendon,  who  was  quite  cognizant  of  the 
whole  matter,  but  was  broad  enough  to  leap 
to  the  aid  of  another  woman,  did  much. 
She  had  quite  a  talent  for  witty  stories  and  a 
goodly  fund  of  them.  The  dinner  went  off  very 
well,  while  Martha  Wallingford  ate  hers  from 
a  dinner  tray  in  her  room  and  felt  that  every 
morsel  was  sweetened  with  righteous  revenge. 

The  next  morning  she  left  for  New  York  and 
Margaret  did  not  attempt  to  detain  her  al 
though  she  had  a  lunch  party  planned  besides 
the  Sunday  festivities.  Margaret  had  had  a 
scene  with  Wilbur  after  the  departure  of  the 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         165 

guests  the  previous  evening.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  experience,  the  devoted  husband 
had  turned  upon  his  goddess.  He  had  asked, 
"Was  it  true,  what  that  girl  said?"  and  Mar 
garet  had  laughed  up  at  him  bewitchingly  to  no 
effect.  Wilbur's  face  was  very  stern. 

"My  dear,"  said  Margaret,  "I  knew  per 
fectly  well  that  if  I  actually  asked  her  to  speak 
or  read,  she  would  have  refused." 

"You  have  done  an  unpardonable  thing," 
said  the  man.  "You  have  betrayed  your  own 
sense  of  honour,  your  hospitality  toward  the 
guest  under  your  roof." 

Margaret  laughed  as  she  took  an  ornament 
from  her  yellow  head  but  the  laugh  was  de 
fiant  and  forced.  In  her  heart  she  bitterly  re 
sented  her  husband's  attitude  and  more  bitterly 
resented  the  attitude  of  respect  into  which  it 
forced  her.  "It  is  the  very  last  time  I  ask  a 
Western  authoress  to  accept  my  hospitality," 
said  she. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Wilbur  gravely. 

That  night  Karl  von  Eosen  walked  home 
with  Annie  Eustace.  She  had  come  quite  un 
attended,  as  was  the  wont  of  Fairbridge  ladies. 


166         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

That  long  peaceful  Main  Street  lined  with  the 
homes  of  good  people  always  seemed  a  safe 
thoroughfare.  Annie  was  even  a  little  sur 
prised  when  Von  Rosen  presented  himself  and 
said,  "I  will  walk  home  with  you,  Miss  Eustace, 
with  your  permission/' 

"But  I  live  a  quarter  of  a  mile  past  your 
house, "  said  Annie. 

Von  Rosen  laughed.  "A  quarter  of  a  mile 
will  not  injure  me,"  he  said. 

"It  will  really  be  a  half  mile,"  said  Annie. 
She  wanted  very  much  that  the  young  man 
should  walk  home  with  her,  but  she  was  very 
much  afraid  of  making  trouble.  She  was  re 
lieved  when  he  only  laughed  again  and  said 
something  about  the  beauty  of  the  night.  It 
was  really  a  wonderful  night  and  even  the  eyes 
of  youth,  inhabiting  it  with  fairy  dreams,  were 
not  essential  to  perceive  it. 

"What  flower  scent  is  that?"  asked  Von 
Rosen. 

"I  think,"  replied  Annie,  "that  it  is  wild 
honeysuckle,"  and  her  voice  trembled  slightly. 
The  perfumed  night  and  the  strange  presence 
beside  her  went  to  the  child's  head  a  bit.  The 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         167 

two  walked  along  under  the  trees,  which  cast 
etching-like  shadows  in  the  broad  moonlight, 
and  neither  talked  much.  There  was  scarcely 
a  lighted  window  in  any  of  the  houses  and  they 
had  a  delicious  sense  of  isolation, — the  girl 
and  the  man  awake  in  a  sleeping  world.  Annie 
made  no  further  allusion  to  Miss  Wallingford. 
She  had  for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life  a 
little  selfish  feeling  that  she  did  not  wish  to  jar 
a  perfect  moment  even  with  the  contemplation 
of  a  friend's  troubles.  She  was  very  happy 
walking  beside  Von  Rosen,  holding  up  her 
flimsy  embroidered  skirts  carefully  lest  they 
come  in  contact  with  dewy  grass.  She  had 
been  admonished  by  her  grandmother  and  her 
aunts  so  to  do  and  reminded  that  the  frail  fab 
ric  would  not  endure  much  washing  however 
skilful.  Between  the  shadows,  her  lovely  face 
showed  like  a  white  flower  as  Von  Rosen  looked 
down  upon  it.  He  wondered  more  and  more 
that  he  had  never  noticed  this  exquisite  young 
creature  before.  He  did  not  yet  dream  of  love 
in  connection  with  her,  but  he  was  conscious  of 
a  passion  of  surprised  admiration  and  protect- 
iveness. 


168         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"How  is  it  that  I  have  never  seen  yon  when 
I  call  on  your  Aunt  Harriet?"  he  asked  when 
he  parted  with  her  at  her  own  gate,  a  stately 
wrought  iron  affair  in  a  tall  hedge  of  close 
trimmed  lilac. 

"I  am  generally  there,  I  think, "  replied 
Annie,  but  she  was  also  conscious  of  a  little 
surprise  that  she  had  not  paid  more  attention 
when  this  young  man,  who  looked  at  her  so 
kindly,  called.  Then  came  one  of  her  sudden 
laughs. 

"What  is  it!"  asked  Von  Eosen. 

"Oh,  nothing,  except  that  the  cat  is  usually 
there  too,"  replied  Annie.  Von  Eosen  looked 
back  boyishly. 

"Be  sure  I  shall  see  you  next  time  and  hang 
the  cat,"  he  said. 

When  Annie  was  in  her  room  unclasp 
ing  her  corals,  she  considered  how  very 
much  mortified  and  troubled  her  friend, 
Margaret  Edes,  must  feel.  She  recalled 
how  hideous  it  had  all  been — that  appear 
ance  of  the  Western  girl  in  the  dining-room 
door-way,  her  rude  ways,  her  flushed  angry 
face.  Annie  did  not  dream  of  blaming  Mar- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         169 

garet.  She  was  almost  a  fanatic  as  far  as 
loyalty  to  her  friends  was  concerned.  She 
loved  Margaret  and  she  had  only  a  feeling  of 
cold  dislike  and  disapprobation  toward  Miss 
Wallingford  who  had  hurt  Margaret.  As  for 
that  charge  of  "trapping,"  she  paid  no  heed  to 
it  whatever.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  go  and 
see  Margaret  the  very  next  day  and  tell  her  a 
secret,  a  very  great  secret,  which  she  was  sure 
would  comfort  her  and  make  ample  amends  to 
her  for  all  her  distress  of  the  night  before. 
Little  Annie  Eustace  was  so  very  innocent  and 
ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  world  that  had  her 
nearest  and  dearest  been  able  to  look  into  her 
heart  of  hearts,  they  might  have  been  appalled, 
incredulous  and  reverent,  according  to  their 
natures.  For  instance,  this  very  good,  simple 
young  girl  who  had  been  born  with  the  light  of 
genius  always  assumed  that  her  friends  would 
be  as  delighted  at  any  good  fortune  of  hers  as 
at  their  own.  She  fairly  fed  upon  her  admira 
tion  of  Alice  Mendon  that  evening  when  she 
had  stepped  so  nobly  and  tactfully  into  the 
rather  frightful  social  breach  and  saved,  if  not 
wholly,  the  situation. 


170         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

" Alice  was  such  a  dear,"  she  thought,  and 
the  thought  made  her  face  fairly  angelic. 
Then  she  recalled  how  lovely  Alice  had  looked, 
and  her  own  mobile  face  took  on  unconsciously 
Alice's  expression.  Standing  before  her  look 
ing-glass  brushing  out  her  hair,  she  saw  re 
flected,  not  her  own  beautiful  face  between  the 
lustrous  folds,  but  Alice's.  Then  she  recalled 
with  pride  Margaret's  imperturbability  under 
such  a  trial.  "Nobody  but  Margaret  could 
have  carried  off  such  an  insult  under  her  own 
roof  too,"  she  thought. 

After  she  was  in  bed  and  her  lamp  blown  out 
and  the  white  moon-beams  were  entering  her 
open  windows  like  angels,  she,  after  saying  her 
prayers,  thought  of  the  three,  Margaret,  Alice, 
and  Karl  von  Eosen.  Then  suddenly  a  warm 
thrill  passed  over  her  long  slender  body  but  it 
seemed  to  have  its  starting  point  in  her  soul. 
She  saw  very  distinctly  the  young  man's  dark 
handsome  face,  but  she  thought,  "How  absurd 
of  me,  to  see  him  so  distinctly,  as  distinctly  as  I 
see  Margaret  and  Alice,  when  I  love  them  so 
much,  and  I  scarcely  know  Mr.  von  Eosen." 
Being  brought  up  by  one's  imperious  grand- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         171 

mother  and  two  imperious  aunts  and  being  one 
self  naturally  of  an  obedient  disposition  and  of 
a  slowly  maturing  temperament,  tends  to 
lengthen  the  long  childhood  of  a  girl.  Annie 
was  almost  inconceivably  a  child,  much  more 
of  a  child  than  Maida  or  Adelaide  Edes.  They 
had  been  allowed  to  grow  like  weeds  as  far  as 
their  imagination  was  concerned,  and  she  had 
been  religiously  pruned. 

The  next  afternoon  she  put  on  her  white 
barred  muslin  and  obtained  her  Aunt  Harriet's 
permission  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  Mar 
garet  if  she  would  work  assiduously  on  her 
daisy  centre  piece,  and  stepped  like  a  white 
dove  across  the  shady  village  street.  Annie, 
unless  she  remembered  to  do  otherwise,  was 
prone  to  toe  in  slightly  with  her  slender  feet. 
She  was  also  prone  to  allow  the  tail  of  her  white 
gown  to  trail.  She  gathered  it  up  only  when, 
her  Aunt  called  after  her.  She  found  Mar 
garet  lying  indolently  in  the  hammock  which 
was  strung  across  the  wide  shaded  verandah. 
She  was  quite  alone.  Annie  had  seen  with  re 
lief  Miss  Martha  Wallingford  being  driven  to 
the  station  that  morning  and  the  express  fol- 


172         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

lowing  with  her  little  trunk.  Margaret  greeted 
Annie  a  bit  stiffly  but  the  girl  did  not  notice  it. 
She  was  so  full  of  her  ignorant  little  plan  to 
solace  her  friend  with  her  own  joy.  Poor 
Annie  did  not  understand  that  it  requires  a  na 
ture  seldom  met  upon  this  earth,  to  be  solaced, 
under  disappointment  and  failure,  by  another's 
joy.  Annie  had  made  up  her  mind  to  say  very 
little  to  Margaret  about  what  had  happened  the 
evening  before.  Only  at  first,  she  remarked 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  dinner,  then  she  said 
quite  casually,  "Dear  Margaret,  we  were  all  so 
sorry  for  poor  Miss  Wallingford's  strange  con 
duct." 

"It  really  did  not  matter  in  the  least,"  re 
plied  Margaret  coldly.  "I  shall  never  invite 
her  again." 

"I  am  sure  nobody  can  blame  you,"  said 
Annie  warmly.  "I  don't  want  to  say  harsh 
things,  you  know  that,  Margaret,  but  that  poor 
girl,  in  spite  of  her  great  talent,  cannot  have 
had  the  advantage  of  good  home-training." 

' '  Oh,  she  is  Western, ' '  said  Margaret.  ' '  How: 
very  warm  it  is  to-day. ' ' 

"Very,  but  there  is  quite  a  breeze  here." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         173 

"A  hot  breeze, "  said  Margaret  wearily. 
"How  I  wish  we  could  afford  a  house  at  the 
seashore  or  the  mountains.  The  hot  weather 
does  get  on  my  nerves." 

A  great  light  of  joy  came  into  Annie's  eyes. 
"Oh,  Margaret  dear,"  she  said,  "I  can't  do  it 
yet  but  it  does  look  as  if  some  time  before  long 
perhaps,  I  may  be  able  myself  to  have  a  house 
at  the  seashore.  I  think  Sudbury  beach  would 
be  lovely.  It  is  always  cool  there,  and  then  you 
can  come  and  stay  with  me  whenever  you  like 
during  the  hot  weather.  I  will  have  a  room 
fitted  up  for  you  in  your  favourite  white  and 
gold  and  it  shall  be  called  Margaret's  room  and 
you  can  always  come,  when  you  wish." 

Margaret  looked  at  the  other  girl  with  a  slow 
surprise.  "I  do  not  understand,"  said  she. 

"Of  course,  you  don't.  You  know  we  have 
only  had  enough  to  live  here  as  we  have  done, ' ' 
said  Annie  with  really  childish  glee,  "but  oh, 
Margaret,  you  will  be  so  glad.  I  have  not  told 
you  before  but  now  I  must  for  I  know  it  will 
make  you  so  happy,  and  I  know  I  can  trust  you 
never  to  betray  me,  for  it  is  a  great  secret,  a 
very  great  secret,  and  it  must  not  be  known  by 


174         THE  BUTTEBFLY  HOUSE 

other  people  at  present.  I  don't  know  just 
when  it  can  be  known,  perhaps  never,  certainly, 
not  now." 

Margaret  looked  at  her  with  indifferent  in 
terrogation.  Annie  did  not  realise  how  indif 
ferent.  A  flood-tide  of  kindly  joyful  emotion 
does  not  pay  much  attention  to  its  banks. 
Annie  continued.  She  looked  sweetly  excited; 
her  voice  rose  high  above  its  usual  pitch. 
"You  understand,  Margaret  dear,  how  it  is," 
she  said.  "You  see  I  am  quite  unknown,  that 
is,  my  name  is  quite  unknown,  and  it  would 
really  hinder  the  success  of  a  book." 

Margaret  surveyed  her  with  awakening  in 
terest.  "A  book!"  said  she. 

"Yes,  a  book!  Oh,  Margaret,  I  know  it  will 
be  hard  for  you  to  believe,  but  you  know  I  am 
very  truthful.  I — I  wrote  the  book  they  are 
talking  about  so  much  now.  You  know  what  I 
mean  ? J ' 

"Not  the— 1" 

"Yes,  The  Poor  Lady, — the  anonymous  novel 
which  people  are  talking  so  much  about  and 
which  sold  better  than  any  other  book  last 
week.  I  wrote  it.  I  really  did,  Margaret." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         175 

" You  wrote  it!" 

Annie  continued  almost  wildly.  "Yes,  I  did, 
I  did!"  she  cried,  "and  you  are  the  only  soul 
that  knows  except  the  publishers.  They  said 
they  were  much  struck  with  the  book  but  ad 
vised  anonymous  publication,  my  name  was  so 
utterly  unknown." 

"You  wrote  The  Poor  Lady?"  said  Mar 
garet.  Her  eyes  glittered,  and  her  lips  tight 
ened.  Envy  possessed  her,  but  Annie  Eustace 
did  not  recognise  envy  when  she  saw  it. 

Annie  went  on  in  her  sweet  ringing  voice,  al 
most  producing  the  effect  of  a  song.  She  was 
so  happy,  and  so  pleased  to  think  that  she  was 
making  her  friend  happy. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  wrote  it.  I  wrote  The 
Poor  Lady." 

"If,"  said  Margaret,  "you  speak  quite  so 
loud,  you  will  be  heard  by  others." 

Annie  lowered  her  voice  immediately  with  a 
startled  look.  "Oh,"  she  whispered.  "I 
would  not  have  anybody  hear  me  for  any 
thing." 

"How  did  you  manage?"  asked  Margaret. 

Annie  laughed  happily.    "I  fear  I  have  been 


176         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

a  little  deceitful,"  she  said,  "but  I  am  sure  they 
will  forgive  me  when  they  know.  I  keep  a 
journal;  I  have  always  kept  one  since  I  was  a 
child.  Aunt  Harriet  wished  me  to  do  so.  And 
the  journal  was  very  stupid.  So  little  unusual 
happens  here  in  Fairbridge,  and  I  have  always 
been  rather  loath  to  write  very  much  about  my 
innermost  feelings  or  very  much  about  my 
friends  in  my  journal  because  of  course  one  can 
never  tell  what  will  happen.  It  has  never 
seemed  to  me  quite  delicate — to  keep  a  very  full 
journal,  and  so  there  was  in  reality  very  little 
to  write. ' '  Annie  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 
"It  just  goes  this  way,  the  journal,"  she  said. 
"To-day  is  pleasant  and  warm.  This  morning 
I  helped  Hannah  preserve  cherries.  In  the 
afternoon  I  went  over  to  Margaret's  and  sat 
with  her  on  the  verandah,  embroidered  two  dai 
sies  and  three  leaves  with  stems  on  my  centre 
piece,  came  home,  had  supper,  sat  in  the  twi 
light  with  Grandmother,  Aunt  Harriet  and 
Aunt  Susan.  Went  upstairs,  put  on  my  wrap 
per  and  read  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 
Went  to  bed.  Now  that  took  very  little  time 
and  was  not  interesting  and  so,  after  I  went  up- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         177 

stairs,  I  wrote  my  entry  in  the  journal  in  about 
five  minutes  and  then  I  wrote  The  Poor  Lady. 
Of  course,  when  I  began  it,  I  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  it  would  amount  to  anything.  I  was  not 
sure  that  any  publisher  would  look  at  it.  Some 
times  I  felt  as  if  I  were  doing  a  very  foolish 
thing:  spending  time  and  perhaps  deceiving 
Grandmother  and  my  aunts  very  wickedly, 
though  I  was  quite  certain  that  if  the  book 
should  by  any  chance  succeed,  they  would  not 
think  it  wrong. 

"Grandmother  is  very  fond  of  books  and  so 
is  Aunt  Harriet,  and  I  have  often  heard  them 
say  they  wished  I  had  been  a  boy  in  order  that 
I  might  do  something  for  the  Eustace  name. 
You  know  there  have  been  so  many  distin 
guished  professional  men  in  the  Eustace  fam 
ily  and  they  of  course  did  not  for  one  minute 
think  a  girl  like  me  could  do  anything  and  I  did 
not  really  think  so  myself.  Sometimes  I  won 
der  how  I  had  the  courage  to  keep  on  writing 
when  I  was  so  uncertain  but  it  was  exactly  as 
if  somebody  were  driving  me.  When  I  had  the 
book  finished,  I  was  so  afraid  it  ought  to  be  type 
written,  but  I  could  not  manage  that.  At  least 


178         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

I  thought  I  could  not,  but  after  awhile  I  did, 
and  in  a  way  that  nobody  suspected,  Aunt 
Harriet  sent  me  to  New  York.  You  know  I 
am  not  often  allowed  to  go  alone  but  it  was 
when  Grandmother  had  the  grippe  and  Aunt 
Susan  the  rheumatism  and  Aunt  Harriet  had 
a  number  of  errands  and  so  I  went  on  the 
Twenty-third  Street  ferry,  and  did  not  go  far 
from  Twenty-third  Street  and  I  took  my  book 
in  my  handbag  and  carried  it  into  Larkins  and 
White 's  and  I  saw  Mr.  Larkins  in  his  office  and 
he  was  very  kind  and  polite,  although  I  think 
now  he  was  laughing  a  little  to  himself  at  the 
idea  of  my  writing  a  book,  but  he  said  to  leave 
the  MSS.  and  he  would  let  me  hear.  And  I  left 
it  and,  oh,  Margaret,  I  heard  within  a  week,  and 
he  said  such  lovely  things  about  it.  You  know  I 
always  go  to  the  post-office,  so  there  was  no 
chance  of  anybody's  finding  it  out  that  way. 
And  then  the  proof  began  to  come  and  I  was  at 
my  wits'  end  to  conceal  that,  but  I  did.  And 
then  the  book  was  published,  and,  Margaret, 
you  know  the  rest.  Nobody  dreams  who  wrote 
it,  and  I  have  had  a  statement  and  oh,  my  dear, 
next  November  I  am  to  have  a  check."  (Annie 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         179 

leaned  over  and  whispered  in  Margaret's  ear.) 
' 1 Only  think/'  she  said  with  a  burst  of  rapture. 

Margaret  was  quite  pale.  She  sat  looking 
straight  before  her  with  a  strange  expression. 
She  was  tasting  in  the  very  depths  of  her  soul 
a  bitterness  which  was  more  biting  than  any 
bitter  herb  which  ever  grew  on  earth.  It  was 
a  bitterness,  which,  thank  God,  is  unknown  to 
many;  the  bitterness  of  the  envy  of  an  incapa 
ble,  but  self-seeking  nature,  of  one  with  the 
burning  ambition  of  genius  but  destitute  of  the 
divine  fire.  To  such  come  unholy  torture, 
which  is  unspeakable  at  the  knowledge  of  an 
other's  success.  Margaret  Edes  was  inwardly 
writhing.  To  think  that  Annie  Eustace,  little 
Annie  Eustace,  who  had  worshipped  at  her  own 
shrine,  whom  she  had  regarded  with  a  lazy, 
scarcely  concealed  contempt,  for  her  incredible 
lack  of  wordly  knowledge,  her  provincialism, 
her  ill-fitting  attire,  should  have  achieved  a  tri 
umph  which  she  herself  could  never  achieve. 
A  cold  hatred  of  the  girl  swept  over  the  woman. 
She  forced  her  lips  into  a  smile,  but  her  eyes 
were  cruel. 

"How  very  interesting,  my  dear,"  she  said. 


180         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Poor  Annie  started.  She  was  acute,  for 
all  her  innocent  trust  in  another's  goodness, 
and  the  tone  of  her  friend's  voice,  the  look  in 
her  eyes  chilled  her.  And  yet  she  did  not 
know  what  they  signified.  She  went  on  beg 
ging  for  sympathy  and  rejoicing  with  her  joy 
as  a  child  might  beg  for  a  sweet.  " Isn't  it 
perfectly  lovely,  Margaret  dear?"  she  said. 

"It  is  most  interesting,  my  dear  child,"  re 
plied  Margaret. 

Annie  went  on  eagerly  with  the  details  of  her 
triumph,  the  book  sales  which  increased  every 
week,  the  revises,  the  letters  from  her  publish 
ers,  and  Margaret  listened  smiling  in  spite  of 
her  torture,  but  she  never  said  more  than 
"How  interesting." 

At  last  Annie  went  home  and  could  not  help 
feeling  disappointed,  although  she  could  not 
fathom  the  significance  of  Margaret's  recep 
tion  of  her  astonishing  news.  Annie  only  wor 
ried  because  she  feared  lest  her  happiness  had 
not  cheered  her  friend  as  much  as  she  had  an 
ticipated. 

"Poor  Margaret,  she  must  feel  so  very  bad 
that  nothing  can  reconcile  her  to  such  a  be- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         181 

trayal  of  her  hospitality/'  she  reflected  as  she 
flitted  across  the  street.  There  was  nobody  in 
evidence  at  her  house  at  window  or  on  the  wide 
verandah.  Annie  looked  at  her  watch  tucked 
in  her  girdle,  hung  around  her  neck  by  a  thin 
gold  chain  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother. 
It  yet  wanted  a  full  hour  of  supper  time.  She 
had  time  to  call  on  Alice  Mendon  and  go  to  the 
post-office.  Alice  lived  on  the  way  to  the  post- 
office,  in  a  beautiful  old  colonial  house.  Annie 
ran  along  the  shady  sidewalk  and  soon  had  a 
glimpse  of  Alice's  pink  draperies  on  her  great 
front  porch.  Annie  ran  down  the  deep  front 
yard  between  the  tall  box  bushes,  beyond  which 
bloomed  in  a  riot  of  colour  and  perfume  roses 
and  lilies  and  spraying  heliotrope  and  pinks 
and  the  rest  of  their  floral  tribe  all  returned 
to  their  dance  of  summer.  Alice's  impos 
ing  colonial  porch  was  guarded  on  either  side 
of  the  superb  circling  steps  by  a  stone  lion  from 
over  seas.  On  the  porch  was  a  little  table  and 
several  chairs.  Alice  sat  in  one  reading.  She 
was  radiant  in  her  pink  muslin.  Alice  seldom 
wore  white.  She  was  quite  sensible  as  to  the 
best  combinations  of  herself  with  colours  al- 


182         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

though  she  had,  properly  speaking,  no  vanity. 
She  arranged  herself  to  the  best  advantage  as 
she  arranged  a  flower  in  a  vase.  On  the  heav 
ily  carved  mahogany  table  beside  her  was  a 
blue  and  white  India  bowl  filled  with  white 
roses  and  heliotrope  and  lemon  verbena. 
Annie  inhaled  the  bouquet  of  perfume  happily 
as  she  came  up  the  steps  with  Alice  smiling  a 
welcome  at  her.  Annie  had  worshipped  more 
fervently  at  Margaret  Edes'  shrine  than  at 
Alice's  and  yet  she  had  a  feeling  of  fuller  con 
fidence  in  Alice.  She  was  about  to  tell  Alice 
about  her  book,  not  because  Alice  needed  the 
comfort  of  her  joy  but  because  she  herself,  al 
though  unknowingly,  needed  Alice's  ready  sym 
pathy  of  which  she  had  no  doubt.  Her  inter 
view  with  Margaret  had  left  the  child  hurt  and 
bewildered  and  now  she  came  to  Alice.  Alice 
did  not  rise  and  kiss  her.  Alice  seldom  kissed 
anybody  but  she  radiated  kindly  welcome. 

"Sit  down,  little  Annie,"  she  said,  "I  am 
glad  you  have  come.  My  aunt  and  cousin 
have  gone  to  New  York  and  I  have  been  alone 
all  day.  We  would  have  tea  and  cake  but  I 
know  the  hour  of  your  Medes  and  Persians' 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         183 
supper  approaches  instead  p'f  my  later  din 


ner.'' 


"Yes,"  said  Annie,  sitting  down,  "and  if  I 
were  to  take  tea  and  cake  now,  Alice,  I  could 
eat  nothing  and  grandmother  and  my  aunts  are 
very  particular  about  my  clearing  my  plate. " 

Alice  laughed,  but  she  looked  rather  solici 
tously  at  the  girl.  ' '  I  know, ' '  she  said,  then  she 
hesitated.  She  pitied  little  Annie  Eustace  and 
considered  her  rather  a  victim  of  loving  but 
mistaken  tyranny.  "I  wish,"  she  said,  "that 
you  would  stay  and  dine  with  me  to-night." 

Annie  fairly  gasped.  "They  expect  me  at 
home,"  she  replied. 

"I  know,  and  I  suppose  if  I  were  to  send  over 
and  tell  them  you  would  dine  with  me,  it  would 
not  answer." 

Annie  looked  frightened.  "I  fear  not,  Alice. 
You  see  they  would  have  had  no  time  to  think 
it  over  and  decide." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"I  have  time  to  make  you  a  little  call  and 
stop  at  the  post-office  for  the  last  mail  and  get 
home  just  in  time  for  supper." 

"Oh,  well,  you  must  come  and  dine  with  me 


184         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

a  week  from  to-day,  and  I  will  have  a  little  din 
ner-party,  "  said  Alice.  "I  will  invite  some 
nice  people.  We  will  have  Mr.  von  Eosen  for 
one." 

Annie  suddenly  flushed  crimson.  It  oc 
curred  to  her  that  Mr.  von  Rosen  might  walk 
home  with  her  as  he  had  done  from  Margaret's, 
and  a  longing  and  terror  at  once  possessed  her. 

Alice  wondered  at  the  blush. 

"I  was  so  sorry  for  poor  Margaret  last 
night,"  Annie  said  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
subject. 

"Yes,"  said  Alice. 

"That  poor  Western  girl,  talented  as  she  is, 
must  have  been  oddly  brought  up  to  be  so  very 
rude  to  her  hostess,"  said  Annie. 

"I  dare  say  Western  girls  are  brought  up 
differently,"  said  Alice. 

Annie  was  so  intent  with  what  she  had  to  tell 
Alice  that  she  did  not  realise  the  extreme  eva 
siveness  of  the  other's  manner. 

"Alice,"  she  said. 

"Well,  little  Annie  Eustace?" 

Annie  began,  blushed,  then  hesitated. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  something.    I  have 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         185 

told  Margaret.  I  have  just  told  her  this  aft 
ernoon.  I  thought  it  might  please  her  and 
comfort  her  after  that  terrible  scene  at  her  din 
ner  last  night,  but  nobody  else  knows  except 
the  publishers." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Alice,  regarding  Annie 
with  a  little  smile. 

"Nothing,  only  I  wrote  The  Poor  Lady," 
said  Annie. 

"My  dear  Annie,  I  knew  it  all  the  time," 
said  Alice. 

Annie  stared  at  her.    "How?" 

"Well,  you  did  not  know  it,  but  you  did  re 
peat  in  that  book  verbatim,  ad  literatim,  a  sen 
tence,  a  very  striking  one,  which  occurred  in 
one  of  your  papers  which  you  wrote  for  the 
Zenith  Club.  I  noticed  that  sentence  at  the 
time.  It  was  this:  *A  rose  has  enough  beauty 
and  fragrance  to  enable  it  to  give  very  freely 
and  yet  itself  remain  a  rose.  It  is  the  case  with 
many  endowed  natures  but  that  is  a  fact  which 
is  not  always  understood.'  My  dear  Annie, 
I  knew  that  you  wrote  the  book,  for  that 
identical  sentence  occurs  in  The  Poor  Lady 
on  page  one  hundred  forty-two.  You  see  I 


186         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

have  fully  considered  the  matter  to  remember 
the  exact  page.  I  knew  the  minute  I  read  that 
sentence  that  my  little  Annie  Eustace  had  writ 
ten  that  successful  anonymous  book,  and  I  was 
the  more  certain  because  I  had  always  had  my 
own  opinion  as  to  little  Annie's  literary  ability 
based  upon  those  same  Zenith  Club  papers. 
You  will  remember  that  I  have  often  told  you 
that  you  should  not  waste  your  time  writing 
club  papers  when  you  could  do  work  like  that." 

Annie  looked  alarmed.  "Oh,  Alice,"  she 
said,  "do  you  think  anybody  else  has  remem 
bered  that  sentence!" 

"My  dear  child,  I  am  quite  sure  that  not  a 
blessed  woman  in  that  club  has  remembered 
that  sentence,"  said  Alice. 

"I  had  entirely  forgotten." 

"Of  course,  you  had." 

"It  would  be  very  unfortunate  if  it  were  re 
membered,  because  the  publishers  are  so  anx 
ious  that  my  name  should  not  be  known.  You 
see,  nobody  ever  heard  of  me  and  my  name 
would  hurt  the  sales  and  the  poor  publishers 
have  worked  so  hard  over  the  advertising,  it 
would  be  dreadful  to  have  the  sales  fall  off. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         187 

You  really  don't  think  anybody  does  remem 
ber?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Alice  with  her  entirely 
good-natured,  even  amused  and  tolerant  air  of 
cynicism,  "the  women  of  the  Zenith  Club  re 
member  their  own  papers.  You  need  not  have 
the  slightest  fear.  But  Annie,  you  wonderful 
little  girl,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  to  me 
with  this.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  tell 
me,  for  I  was  impatient  to  tell  you  how  de 
lighted  I  am.  You  blessed  child,  I  never  was 
more  glad  at  anything  in  my  whole  life.  I 
am  as  proud  as  proud  can  be.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  written  that  book  myself,  and  better  than 
written  it  myself.  I  have  had  none  of  the 
bother  of  the  work  and  my  friend  had  it  and 
my  friend  has  the  fame  and  the  glory  and  she 
goes  around  among  us  with  her  little  halo  hid 
den  out  of  sight  of  everybody,  except  myself." 

"Margaret  knows." 

Alice  stiffened  a  little.  "That  is  recent," 
she  said,  "and  I  have  known  all  the  time." 

"Margaret  could  not  have  remembered  that 
sentence,  I  am  sure,"  Annie  said  thought 
fully.  "Poor  Margaret,  she  was  so  npset  by 


188         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

what  happened  last  night  that  I  am  afraid  the 
news  did  not  cheer  her  up  as  much  as  I  thought 
it  would." 

"Well,  you  dear  little  soul,"  said  Alice,  "I 
am  simply  revelling  in  happiness  and  pride 
because  of  it,  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"But  you  have  not  had  such  an  awful  blow 
as  poor  Margaret  had,"  said  Annie.  Then  she 
brightened.  "Oh  Alice,"  she  cried,  "I  wanted 
somebody  who  loved  me  to  be  glad." 

"You  have  not  told  your  grandmother  and 
aunts  yet  I" 

"I  have  not  dared,"  replied  Annie  in  a 
shamed  fashion.  "I  know  I  deceived  them  and 
I  think  perhaps  grandmother  might  find  it  hard 
not  to  tell.  She  is  so  old  you  know,  and  she 
does  tell  a  great  deal  without  meaning  and 
Aunt  Susan  likes  to  tell  news.  I  have  not 
dared,  Alice.  The  publishers  have  been  so 
very  insistent  that  nobody  should  know,  but  I 
had  to  tell  you  and  Margaret." 

"It  made  no  difference  anyway  about  me," 
said  Alice,  "since  I  already  knew." 

"Margaret  can  be  trusted  too,  I  am  sure," 
Annie  said  quickly. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         189 

' '  Of  course. " 

Annie  looked  at  her  watch.  "I  must  go," 
she  said,  "or  I  shall  be  late.  Isn't  it  really 
wonderful  that  I  should  write  a  successful 
book,  Alice?" 

"You  are  rather  wonderful,  my  dear,"  said 
Alice.  Then  she  rose  and  put  her  arms  around 
the  slender  white-clad  figure  and  held  her  close, 
and  gave  her  one  of  her  infrequent  kisses. 
"You  precious  little  thing,"  she  said,  "the  book 
is  wonderful,  but  my  Annie  is  more  wonderful 
because  she  can  be  told  so  and  never  get  the 
fact  into  her  head.  Here  is  your  work,  dear." 

An  expression  of  dismay  came  over  Annie's 
face.  "Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  only  em 
broidered  half  a  daisy  and  what  will  Aunt  Har 
riet  say?" 

"You  have  embroidered  a  whole  garden  as 
nobody  else  can,  if  people  only  knew  it,"  said 
Alice. 

"But  Alice,"  said  Annie  ruefully,  "my  em 
broidery  is  really  awful  and  I  don't  like  to  do 
it  and  the  linen  is  so  grimy  that  I  am  ashamed. 
Oh,  dear,  I  shall  have  to  face  Aunt  Harriet  with 
that  half  daisy!" 


190         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Alice  laughed.    "She  can't  kill  you." 

"No,  but  I  don't  like  to  have  her  so  disap 
pointed." 

Alice  kissed  Annie  again  before  she  went, 
and  watched  the  slight  figure  flitting  down  be 
tween  the  box-rows,  with  a  little  frown  of  per 
plexity.  She  wished  that  Annie  had  not  told 
Margaret  Edes  about  the  book  and  yet  she  did 
not  know  why  she  wished  so.  She  was  very  far 
from  expecting  the  results.  Alice  was  too  no 
ble  herself  to  entertain  suspicions  of  the  igno- 
bility  of  others.  Certainty  she  was  obliged  to 
confront,  as  she  had  confronted  the  affair  of 
the  night  before.  It  was,  of  course,  the  cer 
tainty  that  Margaret  had  been  guilty  of  a  dis 
graceful  and  treacherous  deed  which  made  her 
uneasy  in  a  vague  fashion  now  and  yet  she  did 
not  for  one  second  dream  of  what  was  to  oc 
cur  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Zenith  Club. 

That  was  at  Mrs.  Sturtevant's  and  was  the 
great  affair  of  the  year.  It  was  called, 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  others,  "The 
Annual  Meeting,"  and  upon  that  occasion  the 
husbands  and  men  friends  of  the  members  were 
invited  and  the  function  was  in  the  evening. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         191 

Margaret  had  wished  to  have  the  club  at 
her  own  house,  before  the  affair  of  Martha  Wal- 
lingford,  but  the  annual  occasions  were  regu 
lated  by  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  it  was 
incontrovertibly  the  turn  of  the  letter  S  and 
Mrs.  Sturtevant's  right  could  not  be  questioned. 
During  the  time  which  elapsed  before  this  meet 
ing,  Margaret  Edes  was  more  actively  unhappy 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  and  all  her 
strong  will  could  not  keep  the  traces  of  that 
unhappiness  from  her  face.  Lines  appeared. 
Her  eyes  looked  large  in  dark  hollows.  Wilbur 
grew  anxious  about  her. 

"You  must  go  somewhere  for  a  change,"  he 
said,  "and  I  will  get  my  cousin  Marion  to  come 
here  and  keep  house  and  look  out  for  the  chil 
dren.  You  must  not  be  bothered  even  with 
them.  You  need  a  complete  rest  and  change." 

But  Margaret  met  his  anxiety  with  irrita 
tion.  She  felt  as  if  some  fatal  fascination  con 
fined  her  in  Fairbridge  and  especially  did  she 
feel  that  she  must  be  present  at  the  annual 
meeting.  Margaret  never  for  one  minute 
formulated  to  herself  why  she  had  this  fierce 
desire.  She  knew  in  a  horrible  way  at  the  back 


192         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE     ,• 

of  her  brain,  but  she  kept  the  knowledge  cov 
ered  as  with  a  veil  even  from  herself. 

She  had  a  beautiful  new  gown  made  for  the 
occasion.  Since  she  had  lost  so  much  colour, 
she  was  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of  wearing  her 
favourite  white  and  gold,  or  black.  She  had 
a  crepe  of  a  peculiar  shade  of  blue  which  suited 
her  and  she  herself  worked  assiduously  em 
broidering  it  in  a  darker  shade  which  brought 
out  the  colour  of  her  eyes.  She  looked  quite 
herself  when  the  evening  came  and  Wilbur's 
face  brightened  as  he  looked  at  her  in  her  trail 
ing  blue  with  a  little  diamond  crescent  fasten 
ing  a  tiny  blue  feather  in  her  golden  fluff  of 
hair. 

"You  certainly  do  look  better,"  he  said  hap- 


"I  am  well,  you  old  goose,"  said  Margaret, 
fastening  her  long  blue  gloves.  "You  have 
simply  been  fussing  over  nothing  as  I  told 
you." 

"Well,  I  hope  I  have.  You  do  look  stunning 
to-night,"  said  Wilbur,  gazing  at  her  with  a 
pride  so  intense  that  it  was  almost  piteous  in 
its  self-abnegation. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         193 

"Is  that  your  stunt  there  on  the  table?"  he 
inquired,  pointing  to  a  long  envelope. 

Margaret  laughed  carefully,  dimpling  her 
cheeks.  "Yes,"  she  said,  and  Wilbur  took  the 
envelope  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  "I  will 
carry  it  for  you,"  he  said.  "By  the  way,  what 
is  your  stunt,  honey?  Did  you  write  some 
thing?" 

"Wait,  until  you  hear,"  replied  Margaret, 
and  she  laughed  carefully  again.  She  gath 
ered  up  the  train  of  her  blue  gown  and  turned 
upon  him,  her  blue  eyes  glowing  with  a  strange 
fire,  feverish  roses  on  her  cheeks.  "You  are 
not  to  be  surprised  at  anything  to-night,"  she 
said  and  laughed  again. 

She  still  had  a  laughing  expression  when 
they  were  seated  in  Mrs.  Sturtevant's  flower- 
scented  drawing-room,  a  handsome  room,  thanks 
to  the  decorator,  who  was  young  and  enthusias 
tic.  Margaret  had  duly  considered  the  color 
scheme  in  her  choice  of  a  gown.  The  furniture 
was  upholstered  with  a  wisteria  pattern,  except 
a  few  chairs  which  were  cane-seated,  with  sil 
vered  wood.  Margaret  had  gone  directly  to 
one  of  these  chairs.  She  was  not  sure  of  her 


194         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

gown  being  exactly  the  right  shade  of  blue  to 
harmonise  with  the  wisteria  at  close  quarters. 
The  chair  was  tall  and  slender.  Margaret's 
feet  did  not  touch  the  floor,  but  the  long  blue 
trail  of  her  gown  concealed  that,  and  she  con 
trived  to  sit  as  if  they  did.  She  gave  the  im 
pression  of  a  tall  creature  of  extreme  grace  as 
she  sat  propping  her  back  against  her  silvered 
chair.  Wilbur  gazed  at  her  with  adoration. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  the  affair  of  Martha 
Wallingford.  He  had  excused  his  Margaret 
because  she  was  a  woman  and  he  was 
profoundly  ignorant  of  women's  strange  ambi 
tions.  Now,  he  regarded  her  with  unquali 
fied  admiration.  He  looked  from  her  to  the 
other  women  and  back  again  and  was  en 
tirely  convinced  that  she  outshone  them  all 
as  a  sun  a  star.  He  looked  at  the  envelope 
in  her  blue  lap  and  was  sure  that  she  had  writ 
ten  something  which  was  infinitely  superior  to 
the  work  of  any  other  woman  there.  Down  in 
the  depths  of  his  masculine  soul,  Wilbur  Edes 
had  a  sense  of  amused  toleration  when 
women's  clubs  were  concerned,  but  he  always 
took  his  Margaret  seriously,  and  the  Zenith 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         195 

Club  on  that  account  was  that  night  an  impor 
tant  and  grave  organisation.  He  wished  very 
much  to  smoke  and  he  was  wedged  into  an  un 
comfortable  corner  with  a  young  girl  who  in 
sisted  upon  talking  to  him  and  was  all  the  time 
nervously  rearranging  her  hair,  but  he  had  a 
good  view  of  his  Margaret  in  her  wonderful 
blue  gown,  in  her  silver  chair,  and  he  was  con 
soled. 

"Have  you  read  The  Poor  Lady?"  asked 
spasmodically  the  girl,  and  drove  in  a  slipping 
hair-pin  at  the  same  time. 

"I  never  read  novels,"  replied  Wilbur  ab 
sently,  4 '  haven 't  much  time  you  know. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  suppose  not,  but  that  is  such  a  won 
derful  book  and  only  think,  nobody  has  the 
least  idea  who  wrote  it,  and  it  does  make  it  so 
interesting.  I  thought  myself  it  was  written 
by  Wilbur  Jack  until  I  came  to  a  sentence  which 
I  could  quite  understand  and  that  put  him 
out  of  the  question.  Of  course,  Wilbur  Jack 
is  such  a  great  genius  that  no  young  girl  like 
myself  pretends  to  understand  him,  but  that  is 
why  I  worship  him.  I  tell  Mamma  I  think  he 
is  the  ideal  writer  for  young  girls,  so  elevating. 


196         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

And  then  I  thought  The  Poor  Lady  might  have 
been  written  by  Mrs.  Eudora  Peasely  because 
she  is  always  so  lucid  and  I  came  to  a  sentence 
which  I  could  not  understand  at  all.  Oh,  dear, 
I  have  thought  of  all  the  living  writers  as  writ 
ing  that  book  and  have  had  to  give  it  up,  and 
of  course  the  dead  ones  are  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Wilbur  gravely,  and  then 
his  Margaret  stood  up  and  took  some  printed 
matter  from  an  envelope  and  instantly  the  sit 
uation  became  strangely  tense.  Men  and 
women  turned  eager  faces ;  they  could  not  have 
told  why  eager,  but  they  were  all  conscious  of 
something  unusual  in  the  atmosphere  and  every 
expression  upon  those  expectant  faces  suddenly 
changed  into  one  which  made  them  as  a  listen 
ing  unit.  Then  Margaret  began. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WILBUR  EDES  thought  he  had  never  seen  his 
wife  look  as  beautiful  as  she  did  standing  there 
before  them  all  with  those  fluttering  leaves  of 
paper  in  her  hand.  A  breeze  came  in  at  an  op 
posite  window  and  Margaret's  blue  feather 
tossed  in  it;  her  yellow  hair  crisped  and 
fluffed  and  the  paper  fluttered.  Margaret 
stood  for  an  appreciable  second  surveying 
them  all  with  a  most  singular  expres 
sion.  It  was  compounded  of  honeyed  sweet 
ness,  of  triumph,  and  something  else  more  sub 
tle,  the  expression  of  a  warrior  entering  battle 
and  ready  for  death,  yet  terrible  with  defiance 
and  the  purpose  of  victory,  and  death  for  his 
foe. 

Then  Margaret  spoke  and  her  thin  silvery 
voice  penetrated  to  every  ear  in  the  room. 

"Members  of  the  Zenith  Club  and  friends/' 
said  Margaret,  "I  take  the  opportunity  offered 
me  to-night  to  disclose  a  secret  which  is  a 
source  of  much  joy  to  myself,  and  which  I  am 

197 


198         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

sure  will  be  a  source  of  joy  to  you  also.  I 
trust  that  since  you  are  my  friends  and  neigh 
bours  and  associates  in  club  work,  you  will 
acquit  me  of  the  charge  of  egotism  and  credit 
me  with  my  whole  motive,  which  is,  I  think,  not 
an  unworthy  one  coming  to  you  in  joy,  as  I 
would  come  in  sorrow  for  your  sympathy  and 
understanding.  I  am  about  to  read  an  extract 
from  a  book  whose  success  has  given  me  the 
most  unqualified  surprise  and  delight,  knowing 
as  I  do  that  a  reading  by  an  author  from  her 
own  work  always  increases  the  interest  even 
though  she  may  not  be  an  able  expositor  by 
word  of  mouth  of  what  she  has  written." 

Then  Margaret  read.  She  had  chosen  a 
short  chapter  which  was  in  itself  almost  a 
complete  little  story.  She  read  exceedingly 
well  and  without  faltering.  People  listened 
with  ever-growing  amazement.  Then  Mrs. 
Jack  Evarts  whispered  so  audibly  to  a  man  at 
her  side  that  she  broke  in  upon  Margaret's 
clear  recitative.  "Goodness,  she's  reading 
from  that  book  that  is  selling  so, — The  Poor 
Lady — I  remember  every  word  of  that  chap 
ter." 


THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE         199 

Then  while  Margaret  continued  her  reading 
imperturbably,  the  chorus  of  whispers  in 
creased.  "That  is  from  The  Poor  Lady,  yes,  it 
is.  Did  she  write  it?  Why,  of  course,  she  did. 
She  just  said  so.  Isn't  it  wonderful  that  she 
has  done  such  a  thing!" 

Wilbur  Edes  sat  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon 
his  wife's  face,  his  own  gone  quite  pale,  but 
upon  it  an  expression  of  surprise  and  joy  so 
intense  that  he  looked  almost  foolish  from  such 
a  revelation  of  his  inner  self. 

The  young  girl  beside  him  drove  hair  pins 
frantically  into  her  hair.  She  twisted  up  a 
lock  which  had  strayed  and  fastened  it.  She 
looked  alternately  at  Wilbur  and  Margaret. 

"Goodness  gracious,"  said  she,  and  did  not 
trouble  to  whisper.  "That  is  the  next  to  the 
last  chapter  of  The  Poor  Lady.  And  to  think 
that  your  wife  wrote  it!  Goodness  gracious, 
and  here  she  has  been  living  right  here  in  Fair- 
bridge  all  the  time  and  folks  have  been  seeing 
her  and  talking  to  her  and  never  knew!  Did 
you  know,  Mr.  Edes?" 

The  young  girl  fixed  her  sharp  pretty  eyes 
upon  Wilbur.  "Never  dreamed  of  it,"  he 


200         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

blurted  out,  "just  as  much  surprised  as  any  of 
you." 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  have  kept  such  a 
wonderful  thing  as  that  from  my  own  hus 
band,  "  said  the  girl,  who  was  unmarried,  and 
had  no  lover.  But  Wilbur  did  not  hear.  All 
he  heard  was  his  beloved  Margaret,  who  had 
secretly  achieved  fame  for  herself,  reading  on 
and  on.  He  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what 
she  was  reading.  He  had  no  interest  what 
ever  in  that.  All  he  cared  for  was  the 
amazing  fact  that  his  wife,  his  wonder 
ful,  beautiful  Margaret,  had  so  covered 
herself  with  glory  and  honour.  He  had  a 
slightly  hurt  feeling  because  she  had  not 
told  him  until  this  public  revelation.  He  felt 
that  his  own  private  joy  and  pride  as  her  hus 
band  should  have  been  perhaps  sacred  and  re 
spected  by  her  and  yet  possibly  she  was  right. 
This  public  glory  might  have  seemed  to  her  the 
one  which  would  the  most  appeal  to  him. 

He  had,  as  he  had  said,  not  read  the  book,  but 
he  recalled  with  a  sort  of  rapturous  tenderness 
for  Margaret  how  he  had  seen  the  posters  all 
along  the  railroad  as  he  commuted  to  the  city, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         201 

and  along  the  elevated  road.  His  face  gazing 
at  Margaret  was  as  beautiful  in  its  perfectly 
unselfish  pride  and  affection,  as  a  mother's. 
To  think  that  his  darling  had  done  such  a  thing ! 
He  longed  to  be  at  home  alone  with  her  and  say 
to  her  what  he  could  not  say  before  all  these 
people.  He  thought  of  a  very  good  reason  why 
she  had  chosen  this  occasion  to  proclaim  her 
authorship  of  the  famous  anonymous  novel. 
She  had  been  so  humiliated,  poor  child,  by  the 
insufferable  rudeness  of  that  Western  girl  that 
she  naturally  wished  to  make  good.  And  how 
modest  and  unselfish  she  had  been  to  make  the 
attempt  to  exalt  another  author  when  she  her 
self  was  so  much  greater.  Wilbur  fully  ex 
onerated  Margaret  for  what  she  did  in  the 
case  of  Martha  Wallingford  in  the  light  of  this 
revelation.  His  modest,  generous,  noble  wife 
had  honestly  endeavoured  to  do  the  girl  a  fa 
vour,  to  assist  her  in  spite  of  herself  and  she 
had  received  nothing  save  rudeness,  ingrati 
tude,  and  humiliation  in  return.  Now,  she  was 
asserting  herself.  She  was  showing  all  Fair- 
bridge  that  she  was  the  one  upon  whom  hon 
our  should  be  showered.  She  was  showing  him 


202         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

and  rightfully.  He  remembered  with  compunc 
tion  his  severity  toward  her  on  account  of  the 
Martha  Wallingford  affair,  his  beautiful, 
gifted  Margaret!  Why,  even  then  she  might 
have  electrified  that  woman's  club  by  making 
the  revelation  which  she  had  won  to-night  and 
reading  this  same  selection  from  her  own  book. 
He  had  not  read  Martha  Wallingford's  Hearts 
Astray.  He  thought  that  the  title  was  enough 
for  him.  He  knew  that  it  must  be  one  of  the 
womanish,  hysterical,  sentimental  type  of 
things  which  he  despised.  But  Margaret  had 
been  so  modest  that  she  had  held  back  from  the 
turning  on  the  search-light  of  her  own  greater 
glory.  She  had  made  the  effort  which  had  re 
sulted  so  disastrously  to  obtain  a  lesser  one, 
and  he  had  condemned  her.  He  knew  that 
women  always  used  circuitous  ways  toward 
their  results,  just  as  men  used  sledge-hammer 
ones.  Why  should  a  man  criticise  a  woman's 
method  any  more  than  a  woman  criticise  a 
man's!  Wilbur,  blushing  like  a  girl  with  pride 
and  delight,  listened  to  his  wife  and  fairly 
lashed  himself.  He  was  wholly  unworthy  of 
such  a  woman,  he  knew. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         203 

When  the  reading  was  over  and  people 
crowded  around  Margaret  and  congratulated 
her,  he  stood  aloof.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
speak  of  this  stupendous  thing  with  her  until 
they  were  alone.  Then  Doctor  Sturtevant's 
great  hulk  pressed  against  him  and  his  son 
orous  voice  said  in  his  ear,  "By  Jove,  old  man, 
your  wife  has  drawn  a  lucky  number.  Con 
gratulations."  Wilbur  gulped  as  he  thanked 
him.  Then  Sturtevant  went  on  talking  about 
a  matter  which  was  rather  dear  to  Wilbur's 
own  ambition  and  which  he  knew  had  been  ten 
tatively  discussed:  the  advisability  of  his  run 
ning  for  State  Senator  in  the  autumn.  Wil 
bur  knew  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  him  pro 
fessionally,  and  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he 
knew  that  his  wife's  success  had  been  the  last 
push  toward  his  own.  Other  men  came  in  and 
began  talking,  leading  from  his  wife's  success 
toward  his  own,  until  Wilbur  realised  himself 
as  dazzled. 

He  did  not  notice  what  Von  Eosen  noticed, 
because  he  had  kept  his  attention  upon  the  girl, 
that  Annie  Eustace  had  turned  deadly  pale 
when  Margaret  had  begun  her  reading  and  that 


204:         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Alice  Mendon  who  was  seated  beside  her  had 
slipped  an  arm  around  her  and  quietly  and  un 
obtrusively  led  her  out  of  the  room.  Von. 
Eosen  thought  that  Miss  Eustace  must  have 
turned  faint  because  of  the  heat,  and  was  con 
scious  of  a  distinct  anxiety  and  disappoint 
ment.  .  He  had,  without  directly  acknowledging 
it  to  himself,  counted  upon  walking  home  with 
Annie  Eustace,  but  yet  he  hoped  that  she  might 
return,  that  she  had  not  left  the  home.  When 
the  refreshments  were  served,  he  looked  for 
her,  but  Annie  was  long  since  at  Alice  Men- 
ckm's  house  in  her  room.  Alice  had  hurried 
her  there  in  her  carriage. 

"Come  home  with  me,  dear,"  she  had  whis 
pered,  "and  we  can  have  a  talk  together.  iYour 
people  won't  expect  you  yet." 

Therefore,  while  Karl  von  Eosen,  who  had 
gone  to  this  annual  meeting  of  the  Zenith  Club 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  walking  home  with 
Annie,  waited,  the  girl  sat  in  a  sort  of  dumb  and 
speechless  state  in  Alice  Mendon 's  room. 
It  seemed  to  her  like  a  bad  dream. 
Alice  herself  stormed.  She  had  a  high  temper, 
but  seldom  gave  way  to  it.  Now  she  did. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         205 

There  was  something  about  this  which  roused 
her  utmost  powers  of  indignation. 

"It  is  simply  an  outrage,"  declared  Alice, 
marching  up  and  down  the  large  room,  her  rich 
white  gown  trailing  behind  her,  her  chin  high. 
"I  did  not  think  her  capable  of  it.  It  is 
the  worst  form  of  thievery  in  the  world, 
stealing  the  work  of  another's  brain.  It  is  in 
conceivable  that  Margaret  Edes  could  have 
done  such  a  preposterous  thing.  I  never  liked 
her.  I  don't  care  if  I  do  admit  it,  but  I  never 
thought  she  was  capable  of  such  an  utterly  ig 
noble  deed.  It  was  all  that  I  could  do  to  master 
myself,  not  to  stand  up  before  them  all  and  de 
nounce  her.  Well,  her  time  will  come." 

" Alice,"  said  a  ghastly  little  voice  from  the 
stricken  figure  on  the  couch,  "are  you  sure? 
Am  I  sure?  Was  that  from  my  book?" 

"Of  course  it  was  from  your  book.  Why, 
you  know  it  was  from  your  book,  Annie  Eus 
tace,"  cried  Alice  and  her  voice  sounded  high 
with  anger  toward  poor  Annie  herself. 

"I  hoped  that  we  might  be  mistaken  after 
all,"  said  the  voice,  which  had  a  bewildered 
quality.  Annie  Eustace  had  a  nature  which 


206        THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

could  not  readily  grasp  some  of  the  evil  of  hu 
manity.  She  was  in  reality  dazed  before  this. 
She  was  ready  to  believe  an  untruth  rather  than 
the  incredible  truth.  But  Alice  Mendon  was 
merciless.  She  resolved  that  Annie  should 
know  once  for  all. 

"We  are  neither  of  us  mistaken, "  she  said. 
"Margaret  Edes  read  a  chapter  from  your 
book,  The  Poor  Lady,  and  without  stating  in 
so  many  words  that  she  was  the  author,  she 
did  what  was  worse.  She  made  everybody 
think  so.  Annie,  she  is  bad,  bad,  bad.  Call  the 
spade  a  spade  and  face  it.  See  how  black  it  is. 
Margaret  Edes  has  stolen  from  you  your  best 
treasure." 

"I  don't  care  for  that  so  much,"  said  Annie 
Eustace,  "but — I  loved  her,  Alice." 

"Then,"  said  Alice,  "she  has  stolen  more 
than  your  book.  She  has  stolen  the  light  by 
which  you  wrote  it.  It  is  something  hideous, 
hideous." 

Annie  gave  a  queer  little  dry  sob.  "Mar 
garet  could  not  have  done  it,"  she  moaned. 

Alice  crossed  swiftly  to  her  and  knelt  beside 
her.  "Darling,"  she  said,  "you  must  face  it. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         207 

It  is  better.  I  do  not  say  so  because  I  do  not 
personally  like  Margaret  Edes,  but  you  must 
have  courage  and  face  it." 

"I  have  not  courage  enough,"  said  Annie 
and  she  felt  that  she  had  not,  for  it  was  one  of 
the  awful  tasks  of  the  world  which  was  before 
her:  The  viewing  the  mutilated  face  of  love 
itself. 

"You  must,"  said  Alice.  She  put  an  arm 
around  the  slight  figure  and  drew  the  fair  head 
to  her  broad  bosom,  her  maternal  bosom,  which 
served  her  friends  in  good  stead,  since  it  did 
not  pillow  the  heads  of  children.  Friends  in 
distress  are  as  children  to  the  women  of  her 
type. 

"Darling,"  she  said  in  her  stately  voice 
from  which  the  anger  had  quite  gone.  "Dar 
ling,  you  must  face  it.  Margaret  did  read  that 
chapter  from  your  book  and  she  told,  or  as  good 
as  told  everybody  that  she  had  written  it." 

Then  Annie  sobbed  outright  and  the  tears 
came. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "Oh,  Alice,  how  she  must 
want  success  to  do  anything  like  that,  poor, 
poor  Margaret !  Oh,  Alice !" 


208         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"How  she  must  love  herself,"  said  Alice 
[firmly.  "  Annie,  you  must  face  it.  Margaret 
is  a  self-lover;  her  whole  heart  turns  in  love 
toward  her  own  self,  instead  of  toward  those 
whom  she  should  love  and  who  love  her. 
Annie,  Margaret  is  bad,  bad,  with  a  strange 
degenerate  badness.  She  dates  back  to  the 
sins  of  the  First  Garden.  You  must  turn  your 
back  upon  her.  You  must  not  love  her  any 
more." 

"No,  I  must  not  love  her  any  more,"  agreed 
Annie,  "and  that  is  the  pity  of  it.  I  must  not 
love  her,  Alice,  but  I  must  pity  her  until  I  die. 
Poor  Margaret!" 

"Poor  Annie,"  said  Alice.  "You  worked  so 
hard  over  that  book,  dear,  and  you  were  so 
pleased.  Annie,  what  shall  you  do  about  it?" 

Annie  raised  her  head  from  Alice's  bosom 
and  sat  up  straight,  with  a  look  of  terror. 

"Alice,"  she  cried,  "I  must  go  to-morrow 
and  see  my  publishers.  I  must  go  down  on  my 
knees  to  them  if  necessary." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Alice  slowly,  "never 
to  tell?" 

"Oh,  never,  never,  never!"  cried  Annie. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         209 

"I  doubt, "  said  Alice,  "if  you  can  keep  such 
a  matter  secret.  I  doubt  if  your  publishers 
will  consent. " 

"They  must.  I  will  never  have  it  known! 
Poor  Margaret!" 

"I  don't  pity  her  at  all,"  said  Alice.  "I  do 
pity  her  husband  who  worships  her,  and  there 
is  talk  of  his  running  for  State  Senator  and 
this  would  ruin  him.  And  I  am  sorry  for  the 
children. ' ' 

"Nobody  shall  ever  know,"  said  Annie. 

"But  how  can  you  manage  with  the  publish 
ers?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  will." 

"And  you  will  have  written  that  really  won 
derful  book  and  never  have  the  credit  for  it. 
You  will  live  here  and  see  Margaret  Edes 
praised  for  what  you  have  done." 

"Poor  Margaret,"  said  Annie.  "I  must  go 
now.  I  know  I  can  trust  you  never  to 
speak." 

"Of  course,  but  I  do  not  think  it  right." 

"I  don't  care  whether  it  is  right  or  not," 
said  Annie.  "It  must  never  be  known." 

"You  are  better  than  I  am,"  said  Alice  as 


210         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

she  rang  the  bell,  which  was  presently  an 
swered.  "  Peter  has  gone  home  for  the  night, 
Marie  said,"  Alice  told  Annie,  "but  Marie  and 
I  will  walk  home  with  you." 

"Alice,  it  is  only  a  step." 

"I  know,  but  it  is  late." 

"It  is  not  much  after  ten,  and — I  would 
rather  go  alone,  if  you  don't  mind,  Alice.  I 
want  to  get  settled  a  little  before  Aunt  Harriet 
sees  me.  I  can  do  it  better  alone. ' ' 

Alice  laughed.  "Well,"  she  said,  "Marie 
and  I  will  stand  on  the  front  porch  until  you 
are  out  of  sight  from  there  and  then  we  will  go 
to  the  front  gate.  We  can  see  nearly  to  your 
house  and  we  can  hear  if  you  call." 

It  was  a  beautiful  night.  The  moon  was  high 
in  a  sky  which  was  perceptibly  blue.  In  the 
west  was  still  a  faint  glow,  which  was  like  a 
memory  of  a  cowslip  sunset.  The  street  and 
the  white  house-front  were  plumy  with  soft 
tree  shadows  wavering  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Annie  was  glad  when  she  was  alone  in  the 
night.  She  needed  a  moment  for  solitariness 
and  readjustment  since  one  of  the  strongest 
readjustments  on  earth  faced  her — the  reali- 


THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE         211 

sation  that  what  she  had  loved  was  not.  She 
did  not  walk  rapidly  but  lingered  along  the 
road.  She  was  thankful  that  neither  of  her 
aunts  had  been  to  the  annual  meeting.  She 
would  not  need  to  account  for  her  time  so 
closely.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  voice,  quite  a 
loud  voice,  a  man's,  with  a  music  of  gladness 
in  it.  Annie  knew  instinctively  whose  it  was, 
and  she  stepped  quickly  upon  a  lawn  and  stood 
behind  a  clump  of  trees.  A  man  and  woman 
passed  her — Margaret  Edes  and  her  husband — 
and  Wilbur  was  saying  in  his  glad,  loving 
voice,  "To  think  you  should  have  done  such  a 
thing,  Margaret,  my  dear,  you  will  never  know 
how  proud  I  am  of  you." 

Annie  heard  Margaret's  voice  in  a  whisper 
hushing  Wilbur.  "You  speak  so  loud,  dear," 
said  Margaret,  " everybody  will  hear  you." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  do,"  said  Wilbur.  "I 
should  like  to  proclaim  it  from  the  housetops." 
Then  they  passed  and  the  rose  scent  of  Mar 
garet's  garments  was  in  Annie's  face.  She 
was  glad  that  Margaret  had  hushed  her  hus 
band.  She  argued  that  it  proved  some  lit 
tle  sense  of  shame,  but  oh,  when  all  alone  with 


212         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

her  own  husband,  she  had  made  no  disclaimer. 
Annie  came  out  from  her  hiding  and  went  on. 
The  Edes  ahead  of  her  melted  into  the  shad 
ows  but  she  could  still  hear  Wilbur's  glad 
voice.  The  gladness  in  it  made  her  pity  Mar 
garet  more.  She  thought  how  horrible  it  must 
be  to  deceive  love  like  that,  to  hear  that  joyful 
tone,  and  know  it  all  undeserved.  Then  sud 
denly  she  heard  footsteps  behind  and  walked 
to  one  side  to  allow  whoever  it  was  to  pass,  but 
a  man's  voice  said:  "Good  evening,  Miss  Eus 
tace,"  and  Von  Rosen  had  joined  her.  He  had 
in  truth  been  waiting  like  any  village  beau  near 
Alice  Mendon's  house  for  the  chance  of  her 
emerging  alone. 

Annie  felt  annoyed,  and  yet  her  heart  beat 
strangely. 

6 1  Good  evening,  Mr.  von  Rosen, ' '  she  said 
and  still  lingered  as  if  to  allow  him  to  pass,  but 
he  slowed  his  own  pace  and  sauntered  by  her 
side. 

"A  fine  evening,"  he  remarked  tritely. 

"Very,"  agreed  Annie. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  evening  club,"  said  Von 
Rosen  presently. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         213 

"Yes,"  said  Annie,  "I  was  there." 

"You  left  early." 

"Yes,  I  left  quite  early  with  Alice.  I  have 
been  with  her  since." 

Annie  wondered  if  Mr.  von  Rosen  suspected 
anything  but  his  next  words  convinced  her  that 
he  did  not. 

' '  I  suppose  that  you  were  as  much  surprised 
as  the  rest  of  us,  although  you  are  her  inti 
mate  friend,  at  Mrs.  Edes'  announcement  con 
cerning  the  authorship  of  that  successful 
novel,"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  Annie  faintly. 

"Of  course  you  had  no  idea  that  she  had 
written  it?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  read  it?" 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?  I  almost  never 
read  novels  but  I  suppose  I  must  tackle  that  one. 
Did  you  like  it?" 

"Quite  well,"  said  Annie. 

"Tell  me  what  is  it  all  about?" 

Annie  could  endure  no  more.  "It  will  spoil 
the  book  for  you  if  I  tell  you,  Mr.  von  Rosen," 


214         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

said  she,  and  her  voice  was  at  once  firm  and 
piteous.  She  could  not  tell  the  story  of  her 
own  book  to  him.  She  would  be  as  deceitful 
as  poor  Margaret,  for  all  the  time  he  would 
think  she  was  talking  of  Margaret's  work  and 
not  of  her  own. 

Von  Kosen  laughed.  After  all  he  cared  very 
little  indeed  about  the  book.  He  had  what  he 
cared  for:  a  walk  home  with  this  very  sweet 
and  very  natural  girl,  who  did  not  seem  to  care 
whether  he  walked  home  with  her  or  not. 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  he  said,  "but  I 
doubt  if  your  telling  me  about  it  would  spoil 
the  book  for  me,  because  it  is  more  than  prob 
able  that  I  shall  never  read  it  after  all.  I  may 
if  it  comes  in  my  way  because  I  was  somewhat 
surprised.  I  had  never  thought  of  Mrs.  Edes 
as  that  sort  of  person.  However,  so  many 
novels  are  written  nowadays,  and  some  mighty 
queer  ones  are  successful  that  I  presume  I 
should  not  be  surprised.  Anybody  in  Fair- 
bridge  might  be  the  author  of  a  successful 
novel.  You  might,  Miss  Eustace,  for  all  - 1 
know. ' ' 

Annie  said  nothing. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         215 

" Perhaps  you  are,"  said  Von  Eosen.  He 
had  not  the  least  idea  of  the  thinness  of  the  ice. 
Annie  trembled.  Her  truthfulness  was  as  her 
life.  She  hated  even  evasions.  Luckily  Von 
Rosen  was  so  far  from  suspicion  that  he  did 
not  wait  for  an  answer. 

"Mrs.  Edes  reads  well,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well  indeed,"  returned  Annie  eagerly. 

"I  suppose  an  author  can  read  more  under- 
standingly  from  her  own  work,"  said  Von 
Rosen.  "Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Eustace?" 

"I  think  she  might,"  said  Annie. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  shall  read  that  book 
after  all,"  said  Von  Rosen.  "I  rather  liked 
that  extract  she  gave  us.  It  struck  me  as  out 
of  the  common  run  of  women's  books.  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Miss  Eustace.  If  you  were  a 
writer  yourself  I  could  not  speak  so,  but  you 
are  not,  and  you  must  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
many  of  the  books  written  by  women  are  sim 
ply  sloughs  of  oversweetened  sentiment,  and  of 
entirely  innocent  immorality.  But  that  chap 
ter  did  not  sound  as  if  it  could  belong  to  such 
a  book.  It  sounded  altogether  too  logical  for 
the  average  woman  writer.  I  think  I  will  read 


216         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

it.  Then  after  I  have  read  it,  yon  will  not  re 
fuse  to  discuss  it  with  me,  will  you?" 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  replied  Annie  tremu 
lously.  Would  he  never  talk  of  anything  ex 
cept  that  hook?  To  her  relief  he  did,  to  her  re 
lief  and  scarcely  acknowledged  delight. 

"Are  you  interested  in  curios,  things  from 
Egyptian  tombs,  for  instance?"  he  inquired 
with  brutal  masculine  disregard  of  sequence. 

Annie  was  bewildered,  but  she  managed  to 
reply  that  she  thought  she  might  be.  She  had 
heard  of  Von  Rosen's  very  interesting  collec 
tion. 

"I  happened  to  meet  your  aunt,  Miss  Har 
riet,  this  afternoon,"  said  Von  Rosen,  "and  I 
inquired  if  she  were  by  any  chance  interested 
and  she  said  she  was." 

"Yes,"  said  Annie.  She  had  never  before 
dreamed  that  her  Aunt  Harriet  was  in  the  least 
interested  in  Egyptian  tombs. 

1 '  I  ventured  to  ask  if  she  and  her  sister,  Miss 
Susan,  and  you  also,  if  you  cared  to  see  it, 
would  come  some  afternoon  and  look  at  my  col 
lection,"  said  Von  Rosen. 

Nobody  could  have  dreamed  from  his  casual 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         217 

tone  how  carefully  he  had  planned  it  all  out: 
the  visit  of  Annie  and  her  aunts,  the  delicate 
little  tea  served  in  the  study,  the  possible  little 
stroll  with  Annie  in  his  garden.  Von  Rosen 
knew  that  one  of  the  aunts,  Miss  Harriet,  was 
afflicted  with  rose  cold,  and  therefore,  would 
probably  not  accept  his  invitation  to  view  his 
rose-garden,  and  he  also  knew  that  it  was  im 
probable  that  both  sisters  would  leave  their 
aged  mother.  It  was,  of  course,  a  toss-up  as  to 
whether  Miss  Harriet  or  Miss  Susan  would 
come.  It  was  also  a  toss-up  as  to  whether  or 
not  they  might  both  come,  and  leave  little  Annie 
as  companion  for  the  old  lady.  In  fact,  he  had 
to  admit  to  himself  that  the  latter  contingency 
was  the  more  probable.  He  was  well  accus 
tomed  to  being  appropriated  by  elder  ladies, 
with  the  evident  understanding  that  he  pre 
ferred  them.  He  would  simply  have  to  make 
the  best  of  it  and  show  his  collection  as  grace 
fully  as  possible  and  leave  out  the  rose-garden 
and  the  delicious  little  tete-a-tete  with  this 
young  rose  of  a  girl  and  think  of  something 
else.  For  Karl  von  Rosen  in  these  days  was 
accustoming  himself  to  a  strange  visage  in 


218         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

own  mental  looking-glass.  He  had  not  altered 
Ms  attitude  toward  women  but  toward  one  wo 
man,  and  that  one  was  now  sauntering  beside 
him  in  the  summer  moonlight,  her  fluffy  white 
garments  now  and  then  blowing  across  his  sober 
garb.  He  was  conscious  of  holding  himself  in 
a  very  tight  rein.  He  wondered  how  long  men 
were  usually  about  their  love-making.  He 
wished  to  make  love  that  very  instant,  but  he 
feared  lest  the  girl  might  be  lost  by  such  im 
petuosity.  In  all  likelihood,  the  thought  of  love 
in  connection  with  himself  had  never  entered 
her  mind.  Why  should  it?  Karl  in  love  was 
very  modest  and  saw  himself  as  a  very  insig 
nificant  figure.  Probably  this  flower-like  young 
creature  had  never  thought  of  love  at  all.  She 
had  lived  her  sweet  simple  village  life.  She 
had  obeyed  her  grandmother  and  her  aunts, 
done  her  household  tasks  and  embroidered. 
He  remembered  the  grimy  bit  of  linen  which 
he  had  picked  up  and  he  could  not  see  the  very 
slightest  connection  between  that  sort  of  thing 
and  love  and  romance.  Of  course,  she  had  read 
a  few  love  stories  and  the  reasoning  by  analogy 
develops  in  all  minds.  She  might  have  built  a 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         219 

few  timid  air  castles  for  herself  upon  the  foun 
dations  of  the  love  stories  in  fiction,  and 
this  brought  him  around  to  the  fatal  subject 
again  almost  inevitably. 

"Do  you  know,   Miss   Eustace,"  he   said, 
"that  I  am  wishing  a  very  queer  thing  about 
you?" 

"What,  Mr.  von  Rosen?" 

"I  am  wishing,  you  know  that  I  would  not 
esteem  you  more  highly,  it  is  not  that,  but  I  am 
wishing  that  you  also  had  written  a  book,  a 
really  good  sort  of  love  story,  novel,  you 
know." 

Annie  gasped. 

"I  don't  mean  because  Mrs.  Edes  wrote  The 
Poor  Lady.  It  is  not  that.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  you  could  have  written  a  book  every  whit 
as  good  as  hers  but  what  I  do  mean  is — I  feel 
that  a  woman  writer  if  she  writes  the  best  sort 
of  book  must  obtain  a  certain  insight  concern 
ing  human  nature  which  requires  a  long  time 
for  most  women."  Von  Rosen  was  rather 
mixed,  but  Annie  did  not  grasp  it.  She  was 
very  glad  that  they  were  nearing  her  own 
home.  She  could  not  endure  much  more. 


220         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Is  The  Poor  Lady  a  love  story!"  inquired 
Von  Rosen. 

"There  is  a  little  love  in  it,"  replied  Annie 
faintly. 

"I  shall  certainly  read  it,"  said  Von  Rosen. 
He  shook  hands  with  Annie  at  her  gate  and 
wanted  to  kiss  her.  She  looked  up  in  his  face 
like  an  adorably  timid,  trustful  little  child  and 
it  seemed  almost  his  duty  to  kiss  her,  but  he  did 
not.  He  said  good-night  and  again  mentioned 
his  collection  of  curios. 

"I  hope  you  will  feel  inclined  to  come  and  see 
them,"  he  said,  "with — your  aunts." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Annie,  "I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  come,  if  both  Aunt  Harriet  and 
Aunt  Susan  do  not.  That  would  of  course 
oblige  me  to  stay  with  grandmother." 

"Of  course,"  assented  Von  Rosen,  but  he 
said  inwardly,  "Hang  Grandmother." 

In  his  inmost  self,  Von  Rosen  was  not  a 
model  clergyman.  He,  however,  had  no  reason 
whatever  to  hang  grandmother,  but  quite  the 
reverse,  although  he  did  not  so  conclude,  as  he 
considered  the  matter  on  his  way  home.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  this  darling  of  a  girl  was 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         221 

fairly  hedged  in  by  a  barbed  wire  fence  of  femi 
nine  relatives. 

He  passed  the  Edes'  house  on  his  way  and 
saw  that  a  number  of  the  upper  windows  were 
still  lighted.  He  even  heard  a  masculine  voice 
pitched  on  a  high  cadence  of  joy  and  triumph. 
He  smiled  a  little  scornfully.  "He  thinks  his 
wife  is  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the 
world,"  he  told  himself,  "and  I  daresay  that  a 
novel  is  simply  like  an  over-sweetened  ice 
cream,  with  an  after  taste  of  pepper,  out  of 
sheer  deviltry."  Had  he  known  it,  Margaret 
Edes  herself  was  tasting  pepper,  mustard  and 
all  the  fierce  condiments  known,  in  her  very 
soul.  It  was  a  singular  thing  that  Margaret 
had  been  obliged  to  commit  an  ignoble  deed  in 
order  to  render  her  soul  capable  of  tasting  to 
the  full,  but  she  had  been  so  constituted.  As 
Karl  von  Rosen  passed  that  night,  she  was  sit 
ting  in  her  room,  clad  in  her  white  silk  negligee 
and  looking  adorable,  and  her  husband  was 
fairly  on  his  knees  before  her,  worshipping 
her,  and  she  was  suffering  after  a  fashion 
hitherto  wholly  uncornprehended  by  her.  Mar 
garet  had  never  known  that  she  could  possibly 


222         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

be  to  blame  for  anything,  that  she  could  sit  in 
judgment  upon  herself.  Now  she  knew  it  and 
the  knowledge  brought  a  torture  which  had 
been  unimaginable  by  her.  She  strove  not  to 
make  her  shrinking  from  her  husband  and  his 
exultation — her  terrified  shrinking — evident. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  you  are  simply  wonderful 
beyond  words,"  said  Wilbur,  gazing  up  into  her 
face.  "I  always  knew  you  were  wonderful,  of 
course,  darling,  but  this !  Why,  Margaret,  you 
have  gained  an  international  reputation  from 
that  one  book!  And  the  reviews  have  been 
unanimous,  almost  unanimous  in  their  praise. 
I  have  not  read  it,  dear.  I  am  so  ashamed  of 
myself,  but  you  know  I  never  read  novels,  but 
I  am  going  to  read  my  Margaret's  novel.  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  wonderful,  wonderful  dear!" 
Wilbur  almost  sobbed.  "Do  you  know  what 
it  may  do  for  me,  too?"  he  said.  "Do  you 
know,  Margaret,  it  may  mean  my  election  as 
Senator.  One  can  never  tell  what  may  sway 
popular  opinion.  Once,  if  anybody  had  told 
me  that  I  might  be  elected  to  office  and  my  elec 
tion  might  possibly  be  due  to  the  fact  that  my 
wife  had  distinguished  myself,  I  should  have 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         223 

been  humbled  to  the  dust.  But  I  cannot  be 
humbled  by  any  success  which  may  result  from 
your  success.  I  did  not  know  my  wonderful 
Margaret  then."  Wilbur  kissed  his  wife's 
hands.  He  was  almost  ridiculous,  but  it  was 
horribly  tragic  for  Margaret. 

She  longed  as  she  had  never  longed  for  any 
thing  in  her  life,  for  the  power  to  scream,  to 
shout  in  his  ears  the  truth,  but  she  could  not. 
She  was  bound  hard  and  fast  in  the  bands  of 
her  own  falsehood.  She  could  not  so  disgrace 
her  husband,  her  children.  Why  had  she  not 
thought  of  them  before?  She  had  thought  only 
of  herself  and  her  own  glory,  and  that  glory 
had  turned  to  stinging  bitterness  upon  her 
soul.  She  was  tasting  the  bitterest  medicine 
which  life  and  the  whole  world  contains.  And 
at  the  same  time,  it  was  not  remorse 
that  she  felt.  That  would  have  been  easier. 
What  she  endured  was  self-knowledge.  The 
reflection  of  one's  own  character  under 
unbiased  cross-lights  is  a  hideous  thing  for 
a  self-lover.  She  was  thinking,  while  she 
listened  to  Wilbur's  rhapsodies.  Finally  she 
scarcely  heard  him.  Then  her  attention 


224         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

was  suddenly  keenly  fixed.  There  were  hor 
rible  complications  about  this  which  she  had 
not  considered.  Margaret's  mind  had  no  busi 
ness  turn.  She  had  not  for  a  moment  thought 
of  the  financial  aspect  of  the  whole.  Wilbur 
was  different.  What  he  was  now  saying  was 
very  noble,  but  very  disconcerting.  "Of 
course,  I  know,  darling,  that  all  this  means  a 
pile  of  money,  but  one  thing  you  must  remem 
ber:  it  is  for  yourself  alone.  Not  one  penny 
of  it  will  I  ever  touch  and  more  than  that  it  is 
not  to  interfere  in  the  least  with  my  expendi 
tures  for  you,  my  wife,  and  the  children. 
Everything  of  that  sort  goes  on  as  before. 
You  have  the  same  allowance  for  yourself  and 
the  children  as  before.  Whatever  comes  from 
your  book  is  your  own  to  do  with  as  you  choose. 
I  do  not  even  wish  you  to  ask  ray  advice  about 
the  disposal  of  it." 

Margaret  was  quite  pale  as  she  looked  at 
him.  She  remembered  now  the  sum  which 
Annie  had  told  her  she  was  to  receive.  She 
made  no  disclaimer.  Her  lips  felt  stiff. 
While  Wilbur  wished  for  no  disclaimer,  she 
could  yet  see  that  he  was  a  little  surprised  at 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         225 

receiving  none,  but  she  could  not  speak.  She 
merely  gazed  at  him  in  a  helpless  sort  of  fash 
ion.  The  grapes  which  hung  over  her  friend 's 
garden  wall  were  not  very  simple.  They  were 
much  beside  grapes.  Wilbur  returned  her 
look  pityingly. 

"Poor  girl,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hands 
again;  "she  is  all  tired  out  and  I  must  let  her 
go  to  bed.  Standing  on  a  pedestal  is  rather 
tiresome,  if  it  is  gratifying,  isn't  it,  sweet 
heart?" 

"Yes,"  said  Margaret,  with  a  weary  sigh 
from  her  heart.  How  little  the  poor  man  knew 
of  the  awful  torture  of  standing  upon  the  ped 
estal  of  another,  and  at  the  same  time  holding 
before  one's  eyes  that  looking-glass  with  all 
the  cross-lights  of  existence  full  upon  it! 

Margaret  went  to  bed,  but  she  could  not 
sleep.  All  night  long  she  revolved  the  prob 
lem  of  how  she  should  settle  the  matter  with 
Annie  Eustace.  She  did  not  for  a  second  fear 
Annie's  betrayal,  but  there  was  that  matter  of 
the  publishers.  Would  they  be  content  to  al 
low  matters  to  rest? 

The  next  morning  Margaret  endeavoured  to 


226         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

get  Annie  on  the  telephone  but  found  that  she 
had  gone  to  New  York.  Annie's  Aunt  Harriet 
replied.  She  herself  had  sent  the  girl  on  sev 
eral  errands. 

Margaret  could  only  wait.  She  feared  lest 
Annie  might  not  return  before  Wilbur  and  in 
such  a  case  she  could  not  discuss  matters  with 
her  before  the  next  day.  Margaret  had  a  hor 
rible  time  during  the  next  six  hours.  The  mail 
was  full  of  letters  of  congratulation.  A  local 
reporter  called  to  interview  her.  She  sent 
word  that  she  was  out,  but  he  was  certain  that 
he  had  seen  her.  The  children  heard  the  news 
and  pestered  her  with  inquiries  about  her  book 
and  wondering  looks  at  her.  Callers  came  in 
the  afternoon  and  it  was  all  about  her  book. 
Nobody  could  know  how  relieved  she  was  after 
hearing  the  four-thirty  train,  to  see  little  Annie 
Eustace  coming  through  her  gate.  Annie 
stood  before  her  stiffly.  The  day  was  very 
warm  and  the  girl  looked  tired  and  heated. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  "I  can  not  sit 
down.  I  only  stopped  to  tell  you  that  I  have  ar 
ranged  with  the  publishers.  They  will  keep 
the  secret.  I  shall  have  rather  a  hard  task  ar- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         227 

ranging  about  the  checks,  because  I  fear  it  will 
involve  a  little  deceit  and  I  do  not  like  deceit." 

Annie,  as  she  spoke,  looked  straight  at  Mar 
garet  and  there  was  something  terrible  in  that 
clear  look  of  unsoiled  truth.  Margaret  put  out 
a  detaining  hand. 

"Sit  down  for  a  minute,  please, "  she  said 
cringingly.  "I  want  to  explain ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  whatever  to  explain, "  re 
plied  Annie.  "I  heard." 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  Annie,  "that  this  is 
an  ordinary  offence  about  which  to  talk  of  for 
giveness.  I  do  pity  you,  Margaret,  for  I  realise 
how  dreadfully  you  must  have  wanted  what  did 
not  belong  to  you." 

Margaret  winced.  "Well,  if  it  is  any  satis 
faction  to  you,  I  am  realising  nothing  but  mis 
ery  from  it,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  that,"  replied 
Annie  simply.  Then  she  went  away. 

It  proved  Margaret's  unflinching  trust  in  the 
girl  and  Annie's  recognition  of  no  possibility 
except  that  trust,  that  no  request  nor  promise 
as  to  secrecy  had  been  made.  Annie,  after  she 


228         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

got  home,  almost  forgot  the  whole  for  a  time, 
since  her  Aunt  Harriet,  and  Aunt  Harriet  was 
the  sister  who  was  subject  to  rose-colds,  an 
nounced  her  determination  to  call  at  Mr.  von 
Bosen's  the  next  afternoon  with  Annie  and  see 
his  famous  collection. 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  "the  invitation  was 
meant  particularly  for  me,  since  I  am  one  of 
his  parishioners,  and  I  think  it  will  he  improv 
ing  to  you,  Annie,  to  view  antiquities." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Annie.  She  was 
wondering  if  she  would  be  allowed  to  wear  her 
pale  blue  muslin  and  the  turquoise  necklace 
which  was  a  relic  of  her  grandmother's  girl 
hood.  Aunt  Susan  sniffed  delicately. 

"I  will  stay  with  Mother,"  she  said  with  a 
virtuous  air. 

The  old  lady,  stately  in  her  black  satin,  with 
white  diamonds  gleaming  on  her  veinous  hands, 
glanced  acutely  at  them.  The  next  day,  when 
her  daughter  Harriet  insisted  that  the  cross 
barred  muslin  was  not  too  spoiled  to  wear  to 
the  inspection  of  curios,  she  declared  that  it 
was  simply  filthy,  and  that  Annie  must  wear 
her  blue,  and  that  the  little  string  of  turquoise 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         229 

beads  was  not  in  the  least  too  dressy  for  the 
occasion. 

It  therefore  happened  that  Annie  and  her 
Aunt  Harriet  set  forth  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  Annie  in  blue,  and  her  aunt  in  thin 
black  grenadine  with  a  glitter  of  jet  and  a  little 
black  bonnet  with  a  straight  tuft  of  green  ris 
ing  from  a  little  wobble  of  jet,  and  a  black- 
fringed  parasol  tilted  well  over  her  eyes. 
Annie's  charming  little  face  was  framed  in  a 
background  of  white  parasol.  Margaret  saw 
them  pass  as  she  sat  on  her  verandah.  She 
had  received  more  congratulatory  letters  that 
day,  and  the  thief  envied  the  one  from  whom 
she  had  taken.  Annie  bowed  to  Margaret,  and 
her  Aunt  Harriet  said  something  about  the 
heat,  in  a  high  shrill  voice. 

"She  is  a  wonderful  woman,  to  have  written 
that  successful  novel, "  said  Aunt  Harriet, 
"and  I  am  going  to  write  her  a  congratulatory 
note,  now  you  have  bought  that  stationery  at 
Tiffany's.  I  feel  that  such  a  subject  demands 
special  paper.  She  is  a  wonderful  woman  and 
her  family  have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of 
her." 


230         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Yes,"  said  Annie. 

"It  is  rather  odd,  and  I  have  often  thought 
so,"  said  Aunt  Harriet,  moving  alongside  with 
stately  sweeps  of  black  skirts,  "that  you  have 
shown  absolutely  no  literary  taste.  As  you 
know,  I  have  often  written  poetry,  of  course 
not  for  publication,  and  my  friends  have  been 
so  good  as  to  admire  it." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Annie. 

"I  realise  that  you  have  never  appreciated 
my  poems,"  said  Aunt  Harriet  tartly. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand  poetry  very 
well, ' '  little  Annie  said  with  meekness. 

"It  does  require  a  peculiar  order  of  mind, 
and  you  have  never  seemed  to  me  in  the  least 
poetical  or  imaginative,"  said  her  aunt  in  an 
appeased  voice.  "For  instance,  I  could  not 
imagine  your  writing  a  book  like  Mrs.  Edes, 
and  The  Poor  Lady  was  anonymous,  and  any 
body  might  have  written  it  as  far  as  one  knew. 
But  I  should  never  have  imagined  her  for  a 
moment  as  capable  of  doing  it." 

"No,"  said  Annie. 

Then  they  had  come  to  the  parsonage  and 
Jane  Riggs,  as  rigid  as  starched  linen  could 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         231 

make  a  human  being,  admitted  them,  and  pres 
ently  after  a  little  desultory  conversation,  the 
collection,  which  was  really  a  carefully  made 
one,  and  exceedingly  good  and  interesting,  was 
being  displayed.  Then  came  the  charming  little 
tea  which  Von  Eosen  had  planned ;  then  the  sug 
gestion  with  regard  to  the  rose-garden  and 
Aunt  Harriet's  terrified  refusal,  knowing  as 
she  knew  the  agony  of  sneezes  and  sniffs  sure 
to  follow  its  acceptance ;  and  then  Annie,  a  vis 
ion  in  blue,  was  walking  among  the  roses  with 
Von  Eosen  and  both  were  saying  things  which 
they  never  could  remember  afterward — about 
things  in  which  neither  had  the  very  slightest 
interest.  It  was  only  when  they  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  pergola,  trained  over  with  climb 
ers,  and  the  two  were  seated  on  a  rustic  bench 
therein,  that  the  conversation  to  be  remem 
bered  began. 


CHAPTER 

THE  conversation  began,  paradoxically,  with  a 
silence.  Otherwise,  it  would  have  begun  with 
platitudes.  Since  neither  Von  Rosen  nor  Annie 
Eustace  were  given  usually  to  platitudes, 
the  silence  was  unavoidable.  Both  instinct 
ively  dreaded  with  a  pleasureable  dread  the 
shock  of  speech.  In  a  way  this  was  the  first 
time  the  two  had  been  alone  with  any  chance 
of  a  seclusion  protracted  beyond  a  very  few 
minutes.  In  the  house  was  Aunt  Harriet 
Eustace,  who  feared  a  rose,  as  she  might  have 
feared  the  plague,  and,  moreover,  as  Annie 
comfortably  knew,  had  imparted  the  knowledge 
to  Von  Rosen  as  they  had  walked  down  the  per 
gola,  that  she  would  immediately  fall  asleep. 

"Aunt  Harriet  always  goes  to  sleep  in  her 
chair  after  a  cup  of  tea,"  Annie  had  said  and 
had  then  blushed  redly. 

"Does  she?"  asked  Von  Rosen  with  appar 
ent  absent-mindedness  but  in  reality,  keenly. 
He  excused  himself  for  a  moment,  left  Annie 

233 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         233 

standing  in  the  pergola  and  hurried  back  to 
the  house,  where  he  interviewed  Jane  Riggs, 
and  told  her  not  to  make  any  noise,  as  Miss 
Eustace  in  the  library  would  probably  fall 
asleep,  as  was  her  wont  after  a  cup  of  tea. 
Jane  Riggs  assented,  but  she  looked  after  him 
with  a  long,  slow  look.  Then  she  nodded  her 
head  stiffly  and  went  on  washing  cups  and  sau 
cers  quietly.  She  spoke  only  one  short  sen 
tence  to  herself.  "He's  a  man  and  it's  got  to 
be  somebody.  Better  be  her  than  anybody 
else." 

When  the  two  at  the  end  of  the  pergola  be 
gan  talking,  it  was  strangely  enough  about  the 
affair  of  the  Syrian  girl. 

"I  suppose,  have  always  supposed,  that  the 
poor  young  thing's  husband  came  and  stole  his 
little  son,"  said  Von  Rosen. 

"You  would  have  adopted  him?"  asked 
Annie  in  a  shy  voice. 

"I  think  I  would  not  have  known  any  other 
course  to  take,"  replied  Von  Rosen. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you,"  Annie  said.  She 
cast  a  little  glance  of  admiration  at  him. 

Von  Rosen  laughed.    "It  *is  not  goodness 


234         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

which  counts  to  one's  credit  when  one  is  simply 
chucked  into  it  by  Providence/'  he  returned. 

Annie  laughed.  "To  think  of  your  speaking 
of  Providence  as  *  chucking.'  " 

"It  is  rather  awful,"  admitted  Von  Eosen, 
"but  somehow  I  never  do  feel  as  if  I  need  be 
quite  as  straight-laced  with  you." 

"Mr.  von  Eosen,  you  have  talked  with  me  ex 
actly  twice,  and  I  am  at  a  loss  as  to  whether  I 
should  consider  that  remark  of  yours  as  a  com 
pliment  or  not. " 

"I  meant  it  for  one,"  said  Von  Eosen 
earnestly.  "I  should  not  have  used  that  ex 
pression.  What  I  meant  was  I  felt  that  I 
could  be  myself  with  you,  and  not  weigh  words 
or  split  hairs.  A  clergyman  has  to  do  a  lot 
of  that,  you  know,  Miss  Eustace,  and  some 
times  (perhaps  all  the  time)  he  hates  it;  it 
makes  him  feel  like  a  hypocrite." 

"Then  it  is  all  right,"  said  Annie  rather 
vaguely.  She  gazed  up  at  the  weave  of  leaves 
and  blossoms,  then  down  at  the  wavering  car 
pet  of  their  shadows. 

"It  is  lovely  here,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  slender  young 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         235 

creature  in  the  blue  gown  and  smiled  with  utter 
content. 

"It  is  very  odd/'  he  said,  "but  nothing  ex 
cept  blue  and  that  particular  shade  of  blue 
would  have  harmonised/' 

"I  should  have  said  green  or  pink." 

"They  would  surely  have  clashed.  If  you 
can't  melt  into  nature,  it  is  much  safer  to  try 
for  a  discord.  You  are  much  surer  to  chord. 
That  blue  does  chord,  and  I  doubt  if  a  green 
would  not  have  been  a  sort  of  swear  word  in 
colour  here." 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Annie  like  a 
school  girl.  She  felt  very  much  like  one. 

"I  like  you,"  Von  Rosen  said  abruptly. 

Annie  said  nothing.    She  sat  very  still. 

"No,  I  don't  like  you.  I  love  you,"  said 
Von  Rosen. 

"How  can  you?  You  have  talked  with  me 
only  twice." 

"That  makes  no  difference  with  me.  Does 
it  with  you?" 

"No,"  said  Annie,  "but  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
about—" 

"About  what,  dear?" 


236         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOIISE 

"  About  what  my  aunts  and  grandmother  will 
say." 

"Do  you  think  they  will  object  to  me?" 

"No-o." 

"What  is  it  makes  you  doubtful?  I  have  a 
little  fortune  of  my  own.  I  have  an  income 
besides  my  salary.  I  can  take  care  of  you. 
They  can  trust  you  to  me." 

Annie  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  flush  of  re 
sentment.  "As  if  I  would  even  think  of  such 
a  thing  as  that!" 

"What  then?" 

"You  will  laugh,  but  grandmother  is  very 
old,  although  she  sits  up  so  straight,  and  she 
depends  on  me,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"If  I  married  you,  I  could  not,  of  course, 
play  pinocle  with  grandmother  on  Sunday." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could.  I  most  certainly  should 
not  object." 

"Then  that  makes  it  hopeless." 

Von  Kosen  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  "1 
am  afraid  I  don't  understand  you,  dear  little 
soul." 

"No,  you  do  not.    You  see,  grandmother  is 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         237 

in  reality  very  good,  almost  too  good  to  live, 
and  thinking  she  is  being  a  little  wicked  play 
ing  pinocle  on  Sunday  when  Aunt  Harriet  and 
Aunt  Susan  don't  know  it,  sort  of  keeps  her 
going.  I  don't  just  know  why  myself,  but  I 
am  sure  of  it.  Now  the  minute  she  was  sure 
that  you,  who  are  the  minister,  did  not  object, 
she  would  not  care  a  bit  about  pinocle  and  it 
would  hurt  her." 

Annie  looked  inconceivably  young.  She 
knitted  her  candid  brows  and  stared  at  him 
with  round  eyes  of  perplexity.  Karl  yon 
Eosen  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  well,  if  that  is  all,"  he  said,  "I  object 
strenuously  to  your  playing  pinocle  with  your 
grandmother  on  Sunday.  The  only  way  you 
can  manage  will  be  to  play  hookey  from 
church." 

"I  need  not  'do  that  always,'"  said  Annie, 
"My  aunts  take  naps  Sunday  afternoons,  but 
I  am  sure  grandmother  could  keep  awake  if 
she  thought  she  could  be  wicked." 

"Well,  you  can  either  play  hookey  from 
church,  or  run  away  Sunday  afternoons,  or  if 
you  prefer  and  she  is  able,  I  will  drive  your 


238        THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

grandmother  over  here  and  you  can  play 
pinocle  in  my  study." 

"Then  I  do  think  she  will  live  to  be  a  hun 
dred,"  said  Annie  with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Stop  laughing  and  kiss  me,"  said  Von 
Eosen. 

"I  seldom  kiss  anybody." 

"That  is  the  reason." 

When  Annie  looked  up  from  her  lover's 
shoulder,  a  pair  of  topaz  eyes  were  mysteri 
ously  regarding  her. 

"The  cat  never  saw  me  kiss  anybody,"  said 
Von  Rosen. 

"Do  you  think  the  cat  knows?"  asked  Annie, 
blushing  and  moving  away  a  little. 

"Who  knows  what  any  animal  knows  or  does 
not  know?"  replied  Von  Rosen.  "When  we 
discover  that  mystery,  we  may  have  found  the 
key  to  existence." 

Then  the  cat  sprang  into  Annie's  blue  lap 
and  she  stroked  his  yellow  back  and  looked  at 
Von  Rosen  with  eyes  suddenly  reflective,  rather 
coolly. 

"After  all,  I,  nor  nobody  else,  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  this,"  said  she.  "Do  you  mean 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         239 

that  you  consider  this  an  engagement  ?"  she 
asked  in  astonishment. 

"I  most  certainly  do." 

"  After  we  have  only  really  seen  and  talked 
to  each  other  twice!" 

"It  has  been  all  our  lives  and  we  have  just 
found  it  out,"  said  Von  Rosen.  "Of  course, 
it  is  unusual,  but  who  cares?  Do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Annie.  They  leaned  to 
gether  over  the  yellow  cat  and  kissed  each 
other. 

"But  what  an  absurd  minister's  wife  I  shall 
be,"  said  Annie.  "To  think  of  your  marrying 
a  girl  who  has  staid  at  home  from  church  and 
played  cards  with  her  grandmother!" 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,"  said  Von  Rosen, 
"that  you  do  not  get  more  benefit,  more  spirit 
ual  benefit,  than  you  would  have  done  from  my 
sermons." 

"I  think,"  said  Annie,  "that  you  are  just 
about  as  funny  a  minister  as  I  shall  be  a 
minister's  wife." 

"I  never  thought  I  should  be  married  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  did  not  care  for  women." 


240         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Then  why  do  you  now?" 

"Because  you  are  a  woman." 

Then  there  was  a  sudden  movement  in  front 
of  them.  The  leaf-shadows  flickered;  the  cat 
jumped  down  from  Annie's  lap  and  ran  away, 
his  great  yellow  plume  of  tail  waving  angrily, 
and  Margaret  Edes  stood  before  them.  She  was 
faultlessly  dressed  as  usual.  A  woman  of  her 
type  cannot  be  changed  utterly  by  force  of  cir 
cumstances  in  a  short  time.  Her  hat  was  loaded 
with  wisteria.  She  wore  a  wisteria  gown  of 
soft  wool.  She  held  up  her  skirts  daintily.  A 
great  amethyst  gleamed  at  her  throat,  but  her 
face,  wearing  a  smile  like  a  painted  one,  was 
dreadful.  It  was  inconceivable,  but  Margaret 
Edes  had  actually  in  view  the  banality  of  con 
fessing  her  sin  to  her  minister.  Of  course, 
Annie  was  the  one  who  divined  her  purpose. 
Von  Rosen  was  simply  bewildered.  He  rose, 
and  stood  with  an  air  of  polite  attention. 

"Margaret,"  cried  Annie,  "Margaret!" 

The  man  thought  that  his  sweetheart  was 
simply  embarrassed,  because  of  discovery.  He 
did  not  understand  why  she  bade  him  peremp 
torily  to  please  go  in  the  house  and  see  if  Aunt 


They  leaned  together  over  the  yellow  cat  and 
kissed  each  other 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         241 

Harriet  were  awake,  that  she  wished  to  speak 
to  Mrs.  Edes.  He,  however,  went  as  bidden, 
already  discovering  that  man  is  as  a  child  to  a 
woman  when  she  is  really  in  earnest. 

When  he  was  quite  out  of  hearing,  Annie 
turned  upon  her  friend.  "Margaret,"  she 
said,  " Margaret,  you  must  not." 

Margaret  turned  her  desperate  eyes  upon 
Annie.  "I  did  not  know  it  would  be  like  this," 
she  said. 

"You  must  not  tell  him." 

"I  must." 

"You  must  not,  and  all  the  more  now." 

"Why,  now?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  him." 

"Then  he  ought  to  know." 

"Then  he  ought  not  to  know,  for  you  have 
drawn  me  into  your  web  of  deceit  also.  He 
has  talked  to  me  about  you  and  the  book.  I 
have  not  betrayed  you.  You  cannot  betray 
me." 

"It  will  kill  me.  I  did  not  know  it  would 
be  like  this.  I  never  blamed  myself  for  any 
thing  before." 

"It  will  not  kill  you,  and  if  it  does,  you  must 


242         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

bear  it.  You  must  not  do  your  husband  and 
children  such  an  awful  harm." 

"Wilbur  is  nominated  for  Senator.  He 
would  have  to  give  it  up.  He  would  go  away 
from  Fairbridge.  He  is  very  proud,"  said 
Margaret  in  a  breathless  voice,  "but  I  must 
tell." 

"You  cannot  tell." 

"The  children  talk  of  it  all  the  time.  They 
look  at  me  so.  They  wonder  because  they 
think  I  have  written  that  book.  They  tell  all 
the  other  children.  Annie,  I  must  confess  to 
somebody.  I  did  not  know  it  would  be  like 
this." 

"You  cannot  confess  to  anybody  except 
God,"  said  Annie. 

"I  cannot  tell  my  husband.  I  cannot  tell 
poor  Wilbur,  but  I  thought  Mr.  von  Eosen 
would  tell  him." 

"You  can  not  tell  Mr.  von  Rosen.  iYou  have 
done  an  awful  wrong,  and  now  you  can  not  es 
cape  the  fact  that  you  have  done  it.  You  can 
not  get  away  from  it." 

"You  are  so  hard." 

"No,  I  am  not  hard,"  said  Annie.    "I  did  not 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         243 

betray  you  there  before  them  all,  and  neither 
did  Alice." 

"Did  Alice  Mendon  know!"  asked  Margaret 
in  an  awful  voice. 

"Yes,  I  had  told  Alice.  She  was  so  hurt  for 
me  that  I  think  she  might  have  told." 

"Then  she  may  tell  now.    I  will  go  to  her." 

"She  will  not  tell  now.  And  I  am  not  hard. 
It  is  you  who  are  hard  upon  yourself  and  that 
nobody,  least  of  all  I,  can  help.  You  will  have 
to  know  this  dreadful  thing  of  yourself  all  your 
life  and  you  can  never  stop  blaming  yourself. 
There  is  no  way  out  of  it.  You  can  not  ruin 
your  husband.  You  can  not  ruin  your  chil 
dren's  future  and  you  cannot,  after  the  wrong 
you  have  done  me,  put  me  in  the  wrong,  as  you 
would  do  if  you  told.  By  telling  the  truth,  you 
would  put  me  to  the  lie,  when  I  kept  silence  for 
your  sake  and  the  sakes  of  your  husband  and 
children." 

"I  did  not  know  it  would  be  like  this,"  said 
Margaret  in  her  desperate  voice.  "I  had  done 
nothing  worth  doing  all  my  life  and  the  hunger 
to  do  something  had  tormented  me.  It  seemed 
easy,  I  did  not  know  how  I  could  blame  myself. 


244         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

I  have  always  thought  so  well  of  myself;  I  did 
not  know.  Annie,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  tell. 
You  can't  know  how  keenly  I  suffer,  Annie. 
Let  me  tell  Mr.  von  Eosen.  People  always  tell 
ministers.  Even  if  he  does  not  tell  Wilbur, 
but  perhaps  he  can  tell  him  and  soften  it,  it 
would  be  a  relief.  People  always  tell  min 
isters,  Annie." 

It  seemed  improbable  that  Margaret  Edes  in 
her  wisteria  costume  could  be  speaking.  Annie 
regarded  her  with  almost  horror.  She  pitied 
her,  yet  she  could  not  understand.  Margaret 
had  done  something  of  which  she  herself  was 
absolutely  incapable.  She  had  the  right  to 
throw  the  stone.  She  looked  at  a  sinner  whose 
sin  was  beyond  her  comprehension.  She  pitied 
the  evident  signs  of  distress,  but  her  pity,  al 
though  devoid  of  anger,  was,  in  spite  of  herself, 
coldly  wondering.  Moreover,  Margaret  had 
been  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  of  a  much 
worse  sin  than  the  mere  thievery  of  her  book; 
she  had  murdered  love.  Annie  had  loved  Mar 
garet  greatly.  No,  she  loved  her  no  longer, 
since  the  older  woman  had  actually  blasphemed 
against  the  goddess  whom  the  girl  had  shrined. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         245 

Had  Margaret  stolen  from  another,  it  would 
have  made  no  difference.  The  mere  act  had 
destroyed  herself  as  an  image  of  love.  Annie, 
especially  now  that  she  was  so  happy,  cared 
nothing  for  the  glory  of  which  she  had  been  de 
prived.  She  had,  in  truth,  never  had  much 
hunger  for  fame,  especially  for  herself. 
She  did  not  care  when  she  thought  how  pleased 
her  lover  would  have  been  and  her  relatives, 
but  already  the  plan  for  another  book  was  in 
her  brain,  for  the  child  was  a  creator,  and  no 
blow  like  this  had  any  lasting  power  over  her 
work.  What  she  considered  was  Margaret's 
revelation  of  herself  as  something  else  than 
Margaret,  and  what  she  did  resent  bitterly  was 
being  forced  into  deception  in  order  to  shield 
her.  She  was  in  fact  hard,  although  she  did 
not  know  it.  Her  usually  gentle  nature  had 
become  like  adamant  before  this.  She  felt  un 
like  herself  as  she  said  bitterly: 

"People  do  not  always  tell  ministers,  an3 
you  cannot  tell  Mr.  von  Rosen,  Mar 
garet.  I  forbid  it.  Go  home  and  keep 
still." 

"I  cannot  bear  it." 


246         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Yon  must  bear  it." 

"They  are  going  to  give  me  a  dinner,  the 
Zenith  Club/'  said  Margaret. 

"You  will  have  to  accept  it." 

"I  cannot,  Annie  Eustace,  of  what  do  you 
think  me  capable?  I  am  not  as  bad  as  you 
think.  I  cannot  and  will  not  accept  that  dinner 
and  make  the  speech  which  they  will  expect  and 
hear  all  the  congratulations  which  they  will 
offer.  I  cannot." 

"You  must  accept  the  dinner,  but  I  don't  see 
that  you  need  make  the  speech,"  said  Annie, 
who  was  herself  aghast  over  such  extremity  of 
torture. 

"I  will  not,"  said  Margaret.  She  was  very 
pale  and  her  lips  were  a  tight  line.  Her  eyes 
were  opaque  and  lustreless.  She  was  in  real 
ity  suffering  what  a  less  egotistical  nature 
could  not  even  imagine.  All  her  life  had  Mar 
garet  Edes  worshipped  and  loved  Margaret 
Edes.  Now  she  had  done  an  awful  thing. 
The  falling  from  the  pedestal  of  a  friend  is 
nothing  to  hurling  oneself  from  one's  height  of 
self-esteem  and  that  she  had  done.  She  stood, 
as  it  were,  over  the  horrible  body  of  her  once 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         247 

beautiful  and  adored  self.  She  was  not  actu 
ally  remorseful  and  that  made  it  all  the  worse. 
She  simply  could  not  evade  the  dreadful  glare 
of  light  upon  her  own  imperfections ;  she  who 
had  always  thought  of  herself  as  perfect,  but 
the  glare  of  knowledge  came  mostly  from  her 
appreciation  of  the  attitude  of  her  friends  and 
lovers  toward  what  she  had  done.  Suppose 
she  went  home  and  told  Wilbur.  Suppose  she 
said,  "I  did  not  write  that  book.  My  friend, 
Annie  Eustace,  wrote  it.  I  am  a  thief,  and 
worse  than  a  thief."  She  knew  just  how  he 
would  look  at  her,  his  wife,  his  Margaret,  who 
had  never  done  wrong  in  his  eyes.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  was  afraid,  and  yet 
how  could  she  live  and  bear  such  torture  and 
not  confess?  Confession  would  be  like  a  per 
son  ill  unto  death,  giving  up,  and  seeking  the 
peace  of  a  sick  chamber  and  the  rest  of  bed  and 
the  care  of  a  physician.  She  had  come  to  feel 
like  that  and  yet,  confession  would  be  like  a 
fiery  torture.  Margaret  had  in  some  almost 
insane  fashion  come  to  feel  that  she  might  con 
fess  to  a  minister,  a  man  of  God,  and  ease  her 
soul,  without  more.  And  she  had  never  been 


248         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

religious,  and  would  have  formerly  smiled  in 
serene  scorn  at  her  own  state  of  mind.  And 
Ihere  was  the  other  woman  whom  she  had 
wronged,  forbidding  her  this  one  little  possi 
bility  of  comfort. 

She  said  again  humbly,  "Let  me  tell  him, 
[Annie.  He  will  only  think  the  more  of  you  be 
cause  you  shielded  me." 

But  Annie  was  full  of  scorn  which  Margaret 
Could  not  understand  since  her  nature  was  not 
so  fine.  "Do  you  think  I  wish  him  to!"  she 
said,  but  in  a  whisper  because  she  heard  voices 
and  footsteps.  "You  cannot  tell  him,  Mar 
garet." 

Then  Von  Eosen  and  Aunt  Harriet,  whose 
eyes  were  dim  with  recent  sleep,  came  in  sight, 
and  Harriet  Eustace,  who  had  not  seen  Mar 
garet  since  the  club  meeting,  immediately 
seized  upon  her  two  hands  and  kissed  her  and 
congratulated  her. 

"You  dear,  wonderful  creature,"  she  said, 
"we  are  all  so  proud  of  you.  Fairbridge  is  so 
proud  of  you  and  as  for  us,  we  can  only  feel 
honoured  that  our  little  Annie  has  such  a 
friend.  We  trust  that  she  will  profit  by  your 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         249 

friendship  and  we  realise  that  it  is  such  a  privi 
lege  for  her." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Margaret.  She  turned 
her  head  aside.  It  was  rather  dreadful,  and 
Annie  realised  it. 

Von  Rosen  stood  by  smiling.  "I  am  glad  to 
join  in  the  congratulations,"  he  said.  "In 
these  days  of  many  books,  it  is  a  great  achieve 
ment  to  have  one  singled  out  for  special  notice. 
I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  the 
book,  but  shall  certainly  have  it  soon." 

" Thank  you,"  said  Margaret  again. 

"She  should  give  you  an  autograph  copy," 
said  Harriet  Eustace. 

"Yes,"  said  Margaret.  She  drew  aside 
Annie  and  whispered,  "I  shall  tell  my  hus 
band  then.  I  shall." 

Then  she  bade  them  good  afternoon  in  her 
usually  graceful  way;  murmured  something 
about  a  little  business  which  she  had  with 
Annie  and  flitted  down  the  pergola  in  a  cloud 
of  wisteria. 

"It  does  seem  wonderful,"  said  Harriet 
Eustace,  "that  she  should  have  written  that 
book." 


250         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Von  Rosen  glanced  at  Annie  with  an  inquir 
ing  expression.  He  wondered  whether  she 
wished  him  to  announce  their  engagement  to 
her  aunt.  The  amazing  suddenness  of  it  all 
had  begun  to  daunt  him.  He  was  in  consider 
able  doubt  as  to  what  Miss  Harriet  Eustace, 
who  was  a  most  conservative  lady,  who  had  al 
ways  done  exactly  the  things  which  a  lady 
under  similar  circumstances  might  be  expected 
to  do,  who  always  said  the  things  to  be  ex 
pected,  would  say  to  this,  which  must,  of  course, 
savour  very  much  of  the  unexpected.  Von 
Rosen  was  entirely  sure  that  Miss  Harriet 
Eustace  would  be  scarcely  able  to  conceive  of  a 
marriage  engagement  of  her  niece  especially 
with  a  clergyman  without  all  the  formal  pre 
liminaries  of  courtship,  and  he  knew  well  that 
preliminaries  had  hardly  existed,  in  the  us 
ual  sense  of  the  term.  He  felt  absurdly  shy, 
and  he  was  very  much  relieved  when 
finally  Miss  Harriet  and  Annie  took  their 
leave  and  he  had  said  nothing  about  the  en 
gagement.  Miss  Harriet  said  a  great  deal 
about  his  most  interesting  and  improving  col 
lection.  She  was  a  woman  of  a  patronising 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         251 

turn  of  mind  and  she  made  Von  Eosen  feel  like 
a  little  boy. 

"I  especially  appreciate  the  favour  for  the 
sake  of  my  niece,"  she  said.  "It  is  so  desir 
able  for  the  minds  of  the  young  to  be  im 
proved."  Von  Rosen  murmured  a  polite  ac 
quiescence.  She  had  spoken  of  his  tall,  lovely 
girl  as  if  she  were  in  short  skirts.  Miss  Har 
riet  continued: 

"When  I  consider  what  Mrs.  Edes  has 
done,"  she  said, — "written  a  book  which  has 
made  her  famous,  I  realise  how  exceedingly 
important  it  is  for  the  minds  of  the  young  to 
be  improved.  It  is  good  for  Annie  to  know 
Mrs.  Edes  so  intimately,  I  think." 

For  the  first  time  poor  Annie  was  conscious 
of  a  distinct  sense  of  wrath.  Here  she  herself 
had  written  that  book  and  her  mind,  in  order  to 
have  written  it,  must  be  every  whit  as  improved 
as  Margaret  Edes'  and  her  Aunt  Harriet  was 
belittling  her  before  her  lover.  It  was  a  strug 
gle  to  maintain  silence,  especially  as  her  aunt 
went  on  talking  in  a  still  more  exasperating 
manner. 

"I  always  considered  Mrs.  Wilbur  Edes  as 


252        THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

a  very  unusual  woman,"  said  she,  "but  of 
course,  this  was  unexpected.  I  am  so  thank 
ful  that  Annie  has  the  great  honour  of  her 
friendship.  Of  course,  Annie  can  never  do  what 
Mrs.  Edes  has  done.  She  herself  knows  that 
she  lacks  talent  and  also  concentration.  Annie, 
you  know  you  have  never  finished  that  daisy 
centre  piece  which  you  begun  surely  six  months 
ago.  I  am  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Edes  would 
have  finished  it  in  a  week." 

Annie  did  lose  patience  at  that.  "Margaret 
just  loathes  fancy  work,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said 
she.  "She  would  never  even  have  begun  that 
centre  piece." 

"It  is  much  better  never  to  begin  a  piece  of 
work  than  never  to  finish  it,"  replied  Aunt 
Harriet,  "and  Mrs.  Edes,  my  dear,  has  been 
engaged  in  much  more  important  work.  If  you 
had  written  a  book  which  had  made  you  fa 
mous,  no  one  could  venture  to  complain  of  your 
lack  of  industry  with  regard  to  the  daisy  centre 
piece.  But  I  am  sure  that  Mrs.  Edes,  in  order 
to  have  written  that  book  of  which  everybody 
is  talking,  must  have  displayed  much  industry 
and  concentration  in  all  the  minor  matters  of 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         253 

life.  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  my  dear. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Edes  has  not  neg 
lected  work." 

Annie  made  no  rejoinder,  but  her  aunt  did 
not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"I  am  so  thankful,  Mr.  von  Rosen,"  said  she, 
"that  my  niece  has  the  honour  of  being  counted 
among  the  friends  of  such  a  remarkable  wo 
man.  May  I  inquire  if  Mrs.  Edes  has  ever 
seen  your  really  extraordinary  collection,  Mr. 
von  Rosen." 

"No,  she  has  not  seen  it,"  replied  Von  Rosen, 
and  he  looked  annoyed.  Without  in  the  least 
understanding  the  real  trend  of  the  matter,  he 
did  not  like  to  hear  his  sweetheart  addressed 
after  such  a  fashion,  even  though  he  had  no 
inkling  of  the  real  state  of  affairs.  To  his 
mind,  this  exquisite  little  Annie,  grimy  daisy 
centre  piece  and  all,  had  accomplished  much 
more  in  simply  being  herself,  than  had  Mar 
garet  Edes  with  her  much  blazoned  book. 

"I  trust  that  she  will  yet  see  it,"  said  Miss 
Harriet  Eustace.  Harriet  Eustace  was  tall,  dull 
skinned  and  wide  mouthed,  and  she  had  a  fash 
ion,  because  she  had  been  told  from  childhood 


254         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

that  her  mouth  was  wide,  of  constantly  pucker 
ing  it  as  if  she  were  eating  alum. 

"I  shall  be  of  course  pleased  to  show  Mrs. 
Edes  my  collection  at  any  time,"  said  Von 
Eosen  politely. 

"I  hope  she  will  see  it,"  said  Harriet,  puck 
ering,  "it  is  so  improving,  and  if  anything  is 
improving  to  the  ordinary  mind,  what  must  it 
be  to  the  mind  of  genius  1 ' 9 

The  two  took  leave  then,  Annie  walking  be 
hind  her  aunt.  The  sidewalk  which  was  en 
croached  upon  by  grass  was  very  narrow. 
Annie  did  not  speak  at  all.  She  heard  her  aunt 
talking  incessantly  without  realising  the  sub 
stance  of  what  she  said.  Her  own  brain  was 
overwhelmed  with  bewilderment  and  happiness. 
Here  was  she,  Annie  Eustace,  engaged  to  be 
married  and  to  the  right  man.  The  combina 
tion  was  astounding.  Annie  had  been  con 
scious  ever  since  she  had  first  seen  him,  that 
Karl  von  Eosen  dwelt  at  the  back  of  her 
thoughts,  but  she  was  rather  a  well  disciplined 
girl.  She  had  not  allowed  herself  the  luxury 
of  any  dreams  concerning  him  and  herself. 
She  had  not  considered  the  possibility  of  his 


,THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         255 

caring  for  her,  not  because  she  underestimated 
herself,  but  because  she  overestimated  him. 
Now,  she  knew  he  cared,  he  cared,  and  he 
wanted  to  marry  her,  to  make  her  his  wife. 
After  she  had  reached  home,  when  they  were 
seated  at  the  tea  table,  she  did  not  think  of  tell 
ing  anybody.  She  ate  and  felt  as  if  she  were 
in  a  blissful  crystal  sphere  of  isolation.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  to  reveal  her  secret  until  she 
went  into  her  grandmother's  room  rather  late 
to  bid  her  good  night.  Annie  had  been  sitting 
by  herself  on  the  front  piazza  and  allowing  her 
self  a  perfect  feast  in  future  air-castles.  She 
could  see  from  where  she  sat,  the  lights  from 
the  windows  of  the  Edes'  house,  and  she  heard 
Wilbur's  voice,  and  now  and  then  his  laugh. 
Margaret's  voice,  she  never  heard  at  all. 
Annie  went  into  the  chamber,  the  best  in  the 
house,  and  there  lay  her  grandmother,  old  Ann 
Maria  Eustace,  propped  up  in  bed,  reading  a 
novel  which  was  not  allowed  in  the  Fairbridge 
library.  She  had  bidden  Annie  buy  it  for  her, 
when  she  last  went  to  New  York. 

"I  wouldn't  ask  a  girl  to  buy  such  a  book," 
the  old  lady  had  said,  "but  nobody  will  know 


256         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

you  and  I  have  read  so  many  notices  about  its 
wickedness,  I  want  to  see  it  for  myself.'' 

Now  she  looked  up  when  Annie  entered. 
"It  is  not  wicked  at  all,"  she  said  in  rather  a 
disappointed  tone.  "It  is  much  too  dull.  In 
order  to  make  a  book  wicked,  it  must  be,  at 
least,  somewhat  entertaining.  The  writer 
speaks  of  wicked  things,  but  in  such  a  very 
moral  fashion  that  it  is  all  like  a  sermon.  I 
don't  like  the  book  at  all.  At  the  same  time  a 
girl  like  you  had  better  not  read  it  and  you  had 
better  see  that  Harriet  and  Susan  don't  get  a 
glimpse  of  it.  They  would  be  set  into  fits.  It 
is  a  strange  thing  that  both  my  daughters 
should  be  such  old  maids  to  the  bone  and  mar 
row.  You  can  read  it  though  if  you  wish, 
Annie.  I  doubt  if  you  understand  the  wicked 
ness  anyway,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  grow  up 
straight-laced  like  Harriet  and  Susan.  It  is 
really  a  misfortune.  They  lose  a  lot." 

Then  Annie  spoke.  "I  shall  not  be  an  old 
maid,  I  think,"  said  she.  "I  am  going  to  be 
married. ' ' 

"Married!  Who  is  going  to  marry  you?  I 
haven't  seen  a  man  in  this  house  except  the 


BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         257 

doctor  and  the  minister  for  the  last  twenty 
years/' 

"I  am  going  to  marry  the  minister,  Mr.  von 
Rosen." 

"Lord/'  said  Annie's  grandmother,  and 
stared  at  her.  She  was  a  queer  looking  old  lady 
propped  up  on  a  flat  pillow  with  her  wicked 
book.  She  had  removed  the  front-piece  which 
she  wore  by  day  and  her  face  showed  large  and 
rosy  between  the  frills  of  her  night  cap.  Her 
china  blue  eyes  were  exceedingly  keen  and 
bright.  Her  mouth  as  large  as  her  daughter 
Harriet's,  not  puckered  at  all,  but  frankly  open 
in  an  alarming  slit,  in  her  amazement. 

"When  for  goodness  sake  has  the  man 
courted  you?"  she  burst  forth  at  last. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  if  you  'don't.  You 
haven't  been  meeting  him  outside  the  house. 
No,  you  have  not.  You  are  a  lady,  if  you  have 
been  brought  up  by  old  maids,  who  tell  lies 
about  spades." 

"I  did  not  know  until  this  afternoon,"  said 
Annie.  "Mr.  von  Rosen  and  I  went  out  to  see 
his  rose-garden,  while  Aunt  Harriet — " 


258         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

Then  the  old  lady  shook  the  bed  with  mirth. 

"I  see,"  said  she.  " Harriet  is  scared  to 
death  of  roses  and  she  went  to  sleep  in  the 
house  and  you  got  your  chance.  Good  for  you. 
I  am  thankful  the  Eustace  family  won't  quite 
sputter  out  in  old  maids."  The  old  lady  con 
tinued  to  chuckle.  Annie  feared  lest  her  aunts 
might  hear.  Beside  the  bed  stood  a  table  with 
the  collection  of  things  which  was  Ann  Maria 
Eustace's  nightly  requirement.  There  were  a 
good  many  things.  First  was  a  shaded  read 
ing  lamp,  then  a  candle  and  a  matchbox;  there 
was  a  plate  of  thin  bread  and  butter  carefully 
folded  in  a  napkin.  A  glass  of  milk,  covered 
with  a  glass  dish ;  two  bottles  of  medicine ;  two 
spoons;  a  saucer  of  sugared  raspberries;  ex 
actly  one  square  inch  of  American  cheese  on  a 
tiny  plate ;  a  pitcher  of  water,  carefully  covered ; 
a  tumbler ;  a  glass  of  port  wine  and  a  bottle  of 
camphor.  Old  Ann  Maria  Eustace  took  most 
of  her  sustenance  at  night.  Night  was  really 
her  happy  time.  When  that  worn,  soft  old 
bulk  of  hers  was  ensconsed  among  her  soft  pil 
lows  and  feather  bed  and  she  had  her  eatables 
and  drinkables  and  literature  at  hand,  she  was 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         259 

in  her  happiest  mood  and  she  was  none  the  less 
happy  from  the  knowledge  that  her  daughters 
considered  that  any  well  conducted  old  woman 
should  have  beside  her  bed,  merely  a  stand  with 
a  fair  linen  cloth,  a  glass  of  water,  a  candle 
and  the  Good  Book,  and  that  if  she  could  not 
go  immediately  to  sleep,  she  should  lie  quietly 
and  say  over  texts  and  hymns  to  herself.  All 
Ann  Maria's  spice  of  life  was  got  from  a  hid 
den  antagonism  to  her  daughters  and  quietly 
flying  in  the  face  of  their  prejudices,  and  she 
was  the  sort  of  old  lady  who  could  hardly  have 
lived  at  all  without  spice. 

"Your  Aunt  Harriet  will  be  hopping,"  said 
the  perverse  old  lady  with  another  chuckle. 

"Why,  grandmother?" 

"Harriet  has  had  an  eye  on  him  herself." 

Annie  gasped.  "Aunt  Harriet  must  be  at 
least  twenty-five  years  older,"  said  she. 

"Hm,"  said  the  old  lady,  "that  doesn't 
amount  to  anything.  Harriet  didn't  put  on 
her  pearl  breast-pin  and  crimp  her  hair  unless 
she  had  something  in  her  mind.  Susan  has 
given  up,  but  Harriet  hasn't  given  up." 

Annie  still  looked  aghast. 


260         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

"When  are  you  going  to  get  married! " 

asked  the  old  lady. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Haven't  settled  that  yet?  Well,  when  you 
do,  there's  the  white  satin  embroidered  with 
white  roses  that  I  was  married  in  and  my  old 
lace  veil.  I  think  he's  a  nice  young  man.  All 
I  have  against  him  is  his  calling.  You  will 
have  to  go  to  meeting  whether  you  want  to  or 
not  and  listen  to  the  same  man's  sermons. 
But  he  is  good  looking  and  they  say  he  has 
money,  and  anyway,  the  Eustaces  won't  peter 
out  in  old  maids.  There's  one  thing  I  am 
sorry  about.  Sunday  is  going  to  be  a  pretty 
long  day  for  me,  after  you  are  married,  and  I 
suppose  before.  If  you  are  going  to  marry 
that  man,  I  suppose  you  will  have  to  begin  go 
ing  to  meeting  at  once." 

Then  Annie  spoke  decidedly.  "I  am  always 
going  to  play  pinocle  with  you  Sunday  fore 
noons  as  long  as  you  live,  grandmother,"  said 
she. 

"After  you  are  married?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"After  you  are  married  to  a  minister?" 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         261 

"Yes,  grandmother. " 

The  old  lady  sat  up  straight  and  eyed  Annie 
with  her  delighted  china  blue  gaze. 

"Mr.  von  Eosen  is  a  lucky  man,"  said  she. 
"Enough  sight  luckier  than  he  knows.  You 
are  just  like  me,  Annie  Eustace,  and  your 
grandfather  set  his  eyes  by  me  as  long  as  he 
lived.  A  good  woman  who  has  sense  enough 
not  to  follow  all  the  rules  and  precepts  and 
keep  good,  isn't  found  every  day,  and  she  can 
hold  a  man  and  holding  a  man  is  about  as  tough 
a  job  as  the  Almighty  ever  set  a  woman.  I've 
got  a  pearl  necklace  and  a  ring  in  the  bank. 
Harriet  has  always  wanted  them  but  what  is 
the  use  of  a  born  old  maid  decking  herself  out? 
I  always  knew  Harriet  and  Susan  would  be  old 
maids.  Why,  they  would  never  let  their  doll- 
babies  be  seen  without  all  their  clothes  on, 
seemed  to  think  there  was  something  indecent 
about  cotton  cloth  legs  stuffed  with  sawdust. 
When  you  see  a  little  girl  as  silly  as  that  you 
can  always  be  sure  she  is  cut  out  for  an  old 
maid.  I  don't  care  when  you  get  married — 
just  as  soon  as  you  want  to — and  you  shall 
have  a  pretty  wedding  and  you  shall 


262         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

have  your  wedding  cake  made  after  my  old  re 
cipe.  You  are  a  good  girl,  Annie.  You  look 
like  me.  You  are  enough  sight  better  than  you 
would  be  if  you  were  better,  and  you  can  make 
what  you  can  out  of  that.  Now,  you  must  go 
to  bed.  You  haven't  told  Harriet  and  Susan 
yet,  have  you!" 

"No,  grandmother." 

"I'll  tell  them  myself  in  the  morning,"  said 
the  old  lady  with  a  chuckle  which  made  her 
ancient  face  a  mask  of  mirth  and  mischief, 
"Now,  you  run  along  and  go  to  bed.  This  book 
is  dull,  but  I  want  to  see  how  wicked  the  writer 
tried  to  make  it  and  the  heroine  is  just  making 
an  awful  effort  to  run  away  with  a  married 
man.  She  won't  succeed,  but  I  want  to  see  how 
near  she  gets  to  it.  Good-night,  Annie.  iYou 
can  have  the  book  to-morrow." 

Annie  went  to  her  own  room  but  she  made  no 
preparation  for  bed.  She  had  planned  to  work 
as  she  had  worked  lately  until  nearly  morning. 
She  was  hurrying  to  complete  another  book 
which  she  had  begun  before  Margaret  Edes' 
announcement  that  she  had  written  The  'Poor 
Lady.  The  speedy  completion  of  this  book  had 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         263 

been  the  condition  of  secrecy  with  her  publish 
ers.  However,  Annie,  before  she  lit  the  lamp 
on  her  table  could  not  resist  the  desire  to  sit 
for  a  minute  beside  her  window  and  gaze  out 
upon  the  lovely  night  and  revel  in  her  wonder 
ful  happiness.  The  night  was  lovely  enough 
for  anyone,  and  for  a  girl  in  the  rapture  of  her 
first  love,  it  was  as  beautiful  as  heaven.  The 
broad  village  gleaming  like  silver  in  the  moon 
light  satisfied  her  as  well  as  a  street  of  gold 
and  the  tree  shadows  waved  softly  over  every 
thing  like  wings  of  benediction.  Sweet  odours 
came  in  her  face.  She  could  see  the  soft  pallor 
of  a  clump  of  lilies  in  the  front  yard.  The 
shrilling  of  the  night  insects  seemed  like  the 
calls  of  prophets  of  happiness.  The  lights  had 
gone  out  of  the  windows  of  the  Edes'  house,  but 
suddenly  she  heard  a  faint,  very  faint,  but  very 
terrible  cry  and  a  white  figure  rushed  out  of 
the  Edes'  gate.  Annie  did  not  wait  a  second. 
She  was  up,  out  of  her  room,  sliding  down  the 
stair  banisters  after  the  habit  of  her  childhood 
and  after  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MABGABET  EDES,  light  and  slender  and  supple 
as  she  was,  and  moreover  rendered  swift  with 
the  terrible  spur  of  hysteria,  was  no  match  for 
[Annie  Eustace  who  had  the  build  of  a  racing 
human,  being  long-winded  and  limber*  Annie 
caught  up  with  her,  just  before  they  reached 
Alice  Mendon's  house,  and  had  her  held  by  one 
arm.  Margaret  gave  a  stifled  shriek.  Even  in 
hysteria,  she  did  not  quite  lose  her  head.  She 
had  unusual  self-control. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  gasped.  'Annie  saw  that 
Margaret  carried  a  suit-case,  which  had  prob 
ably  somewhat  hindered  her  movements.  "Let 
me  go,  I  shall  miss  the  ten-thirty  train,"  Mar 
garet  said  in  her  breathless  voice. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going." 

"Where?" 

"Anywhere,=^away  from  it  all." 

The  two  struggled  together  as  far  as  Alice's 
gate,  and  to  Annie's  great  relief,  a  tall  figure 

264 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         265 

appeared,  Alice  herself.  She  opened  the  gate 
and  came  on  Margaret's  other  side. 

"What  is  the  matter f "  she  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  take  the  ten-thirty  train/' 
said  Margaret. 

"  Where  are  you  going  1" 

" To  New  York.' ' 

"Where  in  New  York!" 

"I  am  going." 

"You  are  not  going,"  said  Alice  Mendon; 
"you  will  return  quietly  to  your  own  home  like 
a  sensible  woman.  You  are  running  away,  and 
you  know  it." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Margaret  in  her  desper 
ate  voice.  "You  would  run  away  if  you  were 
in  my  place,  Alice  Mendon." 

"I  could  never  be  in  your  place,"  said  Alice, 
"but  if  I  were,  I  should  stay  and  face  the  situa 
tion."  She  spoke  with  quite  undisguised  scorn 
and  yet  with  pity. 

"You  must  think  of  your  husband  and  chil 
dren  and  not  entirely  of  yourself,"  she  added. 

"If,"  said  Margaret,  stammering  as  she 
spoke,  "I  tell  Wilbur,  I  think  it  will  kill  him. 
If  I  tell  the  children,  they  will  never  really; 


266         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

have  a  mother  again.  They  will  never  forget. 
But  if  I  do  not  tell,  I  shall  not  have  myself.  It 
is  a  horrible  thing  not  to  have  yourself,  Alice 
Mendon." 

"It  is  the  only  way." 

"It  is  easy  for  you  to  talk,  Alice  Mendon. 
You  have  never  been  tempted." 

"No,"  replied  Alice,  "that  is  quite  true.  I 
have  never  been  tempted  because — I  cannot  be 
tempted." 

"It  is  no  credit  to  you.  You  were  made 
so." 

"Yes,  that  is  true  also.  I  was  made  so.  It 
is  no  credit  to  me." 

Margaret  tried  to  wrench  her  arm  free  from 
Annie's  grasp. 

"Let  me  go,  Annie  Eustace,"  she  said.  "I 
hate  you." 

"I  don't  care  if  you  do,"  replied  Annie.  "I 
don't  love  you  any  more  myself.  I  don't  hate 
you,  but  I  certainly  don't  love  you." 

"I  stole  your  laurels,"  said  Margaret,  and 
she  seemed  to  snap  out  the  words. 

"You  could  have  had  the  laurels,"  said 
Annie,  "without  stealing,  if  I  could  have  given 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         267 

them  to  you.  It  is  not  the  laurels  that  matter. 
It  is  you." 

"I  will  kill  myself  if  it  ever  is  known,"  said 
Margaret  in  a  low  horrified  whisper.  She 
cowered. 

''It  will  never  be  known  unless  you  yourself 
tell  it, ' '  said  Annie. 

"I  cannot  tell,"  said  Margaret.  "I  have 
thought  it  all  over.  I  canot  tell  and  yet,  how 
can  I  live  and  not  tell?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Alice  Mendon,  "that  al 
ways  when  people  do  wrong,  they  have  to  endure 
punishment.  I  suppose  that  is  your  punish 
ment,  Margaret.  You  have  always  loved  your 
self  and  now  you  will  have  to  despise  yourself. 
I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it." 

"I  am  not  the  only  woman  who  does  such 
things,"  said  Margaret,  and  there  was  defiance 
in  her  tone. 

"No  douht,  you  have  company,"  said  Alice. 
"That  does  not  make  it  easier  for  you." 
Alice,  large  and  fair  in  her  white  draperies, 
towered  over  Margaret  Edes  like  an  embodied 
conscience.  She  was  almost  unendurable,  like 
the  ideal  of  which  the  other  woman  had  fallen 


268         THE  BU.TTEBFLY  HOUSE 

short.    Her   mere    presence   was   maddening. 
Margaret  actually  grimaced  at  her. 

"It  is  easy  for  you  to  preach,"  said  she," very 
easy,  Alice  Mendon.  You  have  not  a  nerve  in 
your  whole  body.  You  have  not  an  ungrati- 
fied  ambition.  You  neither  love  nor  hate  your 
self,  or  other  people.  You  want  nothing  on 
earth  enough  to  make  the  lack  of  it  disturb 
you." 

"How  well  you  read  me,"  said  Alice  and  she 
smiled  a  large  calm  smile  as  a  statue  might 
smile,  could  she  relax  her  beautiful  marble 
mouth. 

"And  as  for  Annie  Eustace,"  said  Margaret, 
"she  has  what  I  stole,  and  she  knows  it,  and 
that  is  enough  for  her.  Oh,  both  of  you  look 
down  upon  me  and  I  know  it." 

"I  look  down  upon  you  no  more  than  I  have 
always  done,"  said  Alice;  but  Annie  was  silent 
because  she  could  not  say  that  truly. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  have  always  looked  down 
upon  me,  Alice  Mendon,"  said  Margaret,  "and 
you  never  had  reason." 

"I  had  the  reason,"  said  Alice,  "that  your 
own  deeds  have  proved  true." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         269 

"You  could  not  know  that  I  would  do  such  a 
thing.  I  did  not  know  it  myself.  Why,  I 
never  knew  that  Annie  Eustace  could  write  a 
book." 

"I  knew  that  a  self-lover  could  do  anything 
and  everything  to  further  her  own  ends,"  said 
Alice  in  her  inexorable  voice,  which  yet  con 
tained  an  undertone  of  pity. 

She  pitied  Margaret  far  more  than  Annie 
could  pity  her  for  she  had  not  loved  her  so 
much.  She  felt  the  little  arm  tremble  in  her 
clasp  and  her  hand  tightened  upon  it  as  a 
mother's  might  have  done. 

"Now,  we  have  had  enough  of  this,"  said 
she,  "quite  enough.  Margaret,  you  must  posi 
tively  go  home  at  once.  I  will  take  your  suit 
case,  and  return  it  to  you  to-morrow.  I  shall 
be  out  driving.  You  can  get  in  without  being 
seen,  can't  you?" 

"I  tell  you  both,  I  am  going,"  said  Margaret; 
"I  cannot  face  what  is  before  me." 

"All  creation  has  to  face  what  is  before. 
Running  makes  no  difference,"  said  Alice. 
"You  will  meet  it  at  the  end  of  every  mile. 
Margaret  Edes,  go  home.  Take  care  of  your 


270         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

husband,  and  your  children  and  keep  your  se 
cret  and  let  it  tear  you  for  your  own  good." 

"They  are  to  nominate  Wilbur  for  Senator," 
said  Margaret.  "If  they  knew,  if  he  knew, 
Wilbur  would  not  run.  He  has  always  had  am 
bition.  I  should  kill  it." 

"You  will  not  kill  it,"  said  Alice.  "Here, 
give  me  that  suit-case,  I  will  set  it  inside  the 
gate  here.  Now  Annie  and  I  will  walk  with 
you  and  you  must  steal  in  and  not  wake  any 
body  and  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep." 

"To  sleep,"  repeated  Margaret  bitterly. 

"Then  not  to  sleep,  but  you  must  go." 

The  three  passed  down  the  moon-silvered 
road.  When  they  had  reached  Margaret's 
door,  Alice  suddenly  put  an  arm  around  her 
and  kissed  her. 

"Go  in  as  softly  as  you  can,  and  to  bed,"  she 
whispered. 

"What  made  you  do  that,  Alice?"  asked 
Annie  in  a  small  voice  when  the  door  had  closed 
behind  Margaret. 

"I  think  I  am  beginning  to  love  her,"  whis 
pered  Alice.  "Now  you  know  what  we  must 
do,  Annie?" 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         271 

"What?" 

"We  must  both  watch  until  dawn,  until  after 
that  train  to  New  York  which  stops  here  at 
three-thirty.  You  must  stand  here  and  I  will 
go  to  the  other  door.  Thank  God,  there  are 
only  two  doors,  and  I  don't  think  she  will  try 
the  windows  because  she  won't  suspect  our  be 
ing  here.  But  I  don't  trust  her,  poor  thing. 
She  is  desperate.  You  stay  here,  Annie.  Sit 
down  close  to  the  door  and — you  won't  be 
afraid?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Of  course,  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of," 
said  Alice.  "Now  I  will  go  to  the  other  door." 

Annie  sat  there  until  the  moon  sank.  She 
did  not  feel  in  the  least  sleepy.  She  sat  there 
and  counted  up  her  joys  of  life  and  almost  for 
got  poor  Margaret  who  had  trampled  hers  in 
the  dust  raised  by  her  own  feet  of  self-seeking. 
Then  came  the  whistle  and  roar  of  a  train  and 
Alice  stole  around  the  house. 

"It  is  safe  enough  for  us  to  go  now,"  said 
she.  "That  was  the  last  train.  Do  you  think 
you  can  get  in  your  house  without  waking  any 
body?" 


272         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

" There  is  no  danger  unless  I  wake  grand 
mother.  She  wakes  very  early  of  herself  and 
she  may  not  be  asleep  and  her  hearing  is  very 
quick. 

"What  will  she  say!" 

"I  think  I  can  manage  her." 

"Well,  we  must  hurry.  It  is  lucky  that  my 
room  is  away  from  the  others  or  I  should  not 
he  sure  of  getting  there  unsuspected.  Hurry, 
Annie." 

The  two  sped  swiftly  and  noiselessly  down 
the  street,  which  was  now  very  dark.  The  vil 
lage  houses  seemed  rather  awful  with  their 
dark  windows  like  sightless  eyes.  When  they 
reached  Annie's  house  Alice  gave  her  a  swift 
kiss.  "Good-night,"  she  whispered. 

"Alice." 

"Well,  little  Annie?" 

"I  am  going  to  be  married,  to  Mr.  Von 
Eosen." 

Alice  started  ever  so  slightly.  "You  are  a 
lucky  girl,"  she  whispered,  "and  he  is  a  lucky 
man." 

Alice  flickered  out  of  sight  down  the  street 
like  a  white  moonbeam  and  Annie  stole  into 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         273 

the  house.  She  dared  not  lock  the  door  behind 
her  lest  she  arouse  somebody.  She  tip-toed 
upstairs,  but  as  she  was  passing  her  grand 
mother's  door,  it  was  opened,  and  the  old  wo 
man  stood  there,  her  face  lit  by  her  flaring 
candle. 

"You  just  march  right  in  here,"  said  she  so 
loud  that  Annie  shuddered  for  fear  she 
would  arouse  the  whole  house.  She  followed 
her  grandmother  into  her  room  and  the  old  wo 
man  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  her  face  was 
white. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Miss?"  said  she. 
"It  is  after  three  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"I  had  to  go,  grandmother,  and  there  was 
no  harm,  but  I  can't  tell  you.  Indeed,  I  can't," 
replied  Annie,  trembling. 

"Why  can't  you?    I'd  like  to  know." 
"I  can't,  indeed,  I  can't,  grandmother." 
"Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know.    Pretty  doings, 
I  call  it." 

"I  can't  tell  you  why  not,  grandmother." 
The  old  woman  eyed  the  girl.    "Out  with  a 
man — I  don't  care  if  you  are  engaged  to  him 
— till  this  time!"  said  she. 


274         THE  BUTTEEFLY  HOUSE 

Annie  started  and  crimsoned.  "Oh,  grand 
mother!"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  care  if  he  is  a  minister.  I  am  going 
to  see  him  to-morrow,  no,  to-day,  right  after 
breakfast  and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  I 
don't  care  what  he  thinks  of  me." 

"Grandmother,  there  wasn't  any  man." 

"Are  you  telling  me  the  truth?" 

"I  always  tell  the  truth." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  always  have  since  that 
time  when  you  were  a  little  girl  and  I  spanked 
you  for  lying,"  said  the  old  woman.  "I  rather 
think  you  do  tell  the  truth,  but  sometimes  when 
a  girl  gets  a  man  into  her  head,  she  goes  round 
like  a  top.  You  haven't  been  alone,  you  needn't 
tell  me  that." 

"No,  I  haven't  been  alone." 

"But,  he  wasn't  with  you?  There  wasn't 
any  man?" 

"No,  there  was  not  any  man,  grandmother." 

"Then  you  had  better  get  into  your  own 
room  as  fast  as  you  can  and  move  still  or  you 
will  wake  up  Harriet  and  Susan." 

Annie  went. 

"I  am  thankful  I  am  not  curious,"  said  the 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         275 

old  woman  clambering  back  into  bed.  She  lit 
her  lamp  and  took  up  her  novel  again. 

The  next  morning  old  Ann  Maria  Eustace 
announced  her  granddaughter's  engagement  at 
the  breakfast  table.  She  waited  until  the  meal 
was  in  full  swing,  then  she  raised  her  voice. 

"Well,  girls,"  she  said,  looking  first  at  Har 
riet,  then  at  Susan,  "I  have  some  good  news 
for  you.  Our  little  Annie  here  is  too  modest, 
so  I  have  to  tell  you  for  her." 

Harriet  Eustace  laughed  unsuspiciously. 
"Don't  tell  us  that  Annie  has  been  writing  a 
great  anonymous  novel  like  Margaret  Edes," 
she  said,  and  Susan  laughed  also.  "Whatever 
news  it  may  be,  it  is  not  that,"  she  said.  "No 
body  could  suspect  Annie  of  writing  a  book. 
I  myself  was  not  so  much  surprised  at  Mar 
garet  Edes." 

To  Annie's  consternation,  her  grandmother 
turned  upon  her  a  long,  slow,  reading  look. 
She  flushed  under  it  and  swallowed  a  spoon 
ful  of  cereal  hastily.  Then  her  grandmother 
chuckled  under  her  breath  and  her  china  blue 
eyes  twinkled. 

"Annie  has  done  something  a  deal  better 


276         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

than  to  write  a  book,"  said  she,  looking  away 
from  the  girl,  and  fixing  unsparing  eyes  upon 
her  daughters.  "She  has  found  a  nice  man  to 
marry  her." 

Harriet  and  Susan  dropped  their  spoons  and 
stared  at  their  mother. 

"Mother,  what  are  you  talking  about?"  said 
Harriet  sharply.  "She  has  had  no  attention." 

"Sometimes,"  drawled  the  old  lady  in  a  way 
she  affected  when  she  wished  to  be  exasperat 
ing,  "sometimes,  a  little  attention  is  so  strong 
that  it  counts  and  sometimes  attention  is  at 
tention  when  nobody  thinks  it  is." 

'  ( Who  is  it  1 "  asked  Harriet  in  rather  a  hard 
voice.  Susan  regarded  Annie  with  a  bewil 
dered,  yet  kindly  smile.  Poor  Susan  had  never 
regarded  the  honey  pots  of  life  as  intended 
for  herself,  and  thus  could  feel  a  kindly  interest 
in  their  acquisition  by  others. 

"My  granddaughter  is  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  von  Rosen,"  said  the  old  lady. 
Then  she  stirred  her  coffee  assiduously. 

Susan  rose  and  kissed  Annie.  "I  hope  you 
will  be  happy,  very  happy,"  she  said  in  an 
awed  voice.  Harriet  rose,  to  follow  her  sis- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         277 

ter's  example  but  she  looked  viciously  at  her 
mother. 

"He  is  a  good  ten  years  older  than  Annie, " 
she  said. 

"And  a  good  twenty-five  younger  than  you," 
said  the  old  lady,  and  sipped  her  coffee  deli 
cately.  "He  is  just  the  right  age  for  Annie." 

Harriet  kissed  Annie,  but  her  lips  were  cold 
and  Annie  wondered.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
then,  nor  later,  to  imagine  that  her  Aunt  Har 
riet  might  have  had  her  own  dreams  which 
had  never  entirely  ended  in  rainbow  mists. 
She  did  not  know  how  hardly  dreams  die. 
They  are  sometimes  not  entirely  stamped  out 
during  a  long  lifetime. 

That  evening  Von  Rosen  came  to  call  on 
Annie  and  she  received  him  alone  in  the  best 
parlour.  She  felt  embarrassed  and  shy,  but 
very  happy.  Her  lover  brought  her  an  engage 
ment  ring,  a  great  pearl,  which  had  been  his 
mother's  and  put  it  on  her  finger,  and  Annie 
eyed  her  finger  with  a  big  round  gaze  like  a 
bird's.  Von  Rosen  laughed  at  the  girl  holding 
up  her  hand  and  staring  at  the  beringed  finger. 

"Don't  you  like  it,  dear?"  he  said. 


278         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

1 ' It  is  the  most  beautiful  ring  I  ever  saw," 
said  Annie,  "but  I  keep  thinking  it  may  not 
be  true." 

"The  truest  things  in  the  world  are  the 
things  which  do  not  seem  so,"  he  said,  and 
caught  up  the  slender  hand  and  kissed  the  ring 
and  the  finger. 

Margaret  on  the  verandah  had  seen  Von 
Rosen  enter  the  Eustace  house  and  had  guessed 
dully  at  the  reason.  She  had  always  thought 
that  Von  Rosen  would  eventually  marry  Alice 
Mendon  and  she  wondered  a  little,  but  not  much. 
Her  own  affairs  were  entirely  sufficient  to  oc 
cupy  her  mind.  Her  position  had  become  more 
impossible  to  alter  and  more  ghastly.  That 
night  Wilbur  had  brought  home  a  present  to 
celebrate  her  success.  It  was  something  which 
she  had  long  wanted  and  which  she  knew  he 
could  ill  afford: — a  circlet  of  topazes  for 
her  hair.  She  kissed  him  and  put  it  on  to 
please  him,  but  it  was  to  her  as  if  she  were 
crowned  because  of  her  infamy  and  she  longed 
to  snatch  the  thing  off  and  trample  it.  And 
yet  always  she  was  well  aware  that  it  was  not 
remorse  which  she  felt,  but  a  miserable  humilia- 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         279 

tion  that  she,  Margaret  Edes,  should  have  cause 
for  remorse.  The  whole  day  had  been  hideous. 
The  letters  and  calls  of  congratulation  had  been 
incessant.  There  were  brief  notices  in -a  few 
papers  which  had  been  marked  and  sent  to  her 
and  Wilbur  had  brought  them  home  also.  Her 
post-office  box  had  been  crammed.  There  were 
requests  for  her  autograph.  There  were  re 
quests  for  aid  from  charitable  institutions. 
There  were  requests  for  advice  and  assistance 
from  young  authors.  She  had  two  packages 
of  manuscripts  sent  her  for  inspection  concern 
ing  their  merits.  One  was  a  short  story,  and 
came  through  the  mail;  one  was  a  book  and 
came  by  express.  She  had  requests  for  work 
from  editors  and  publishers.  Wilbur  had 
brought  a  letter  of  congratulation  from  his 
partner.  It  was  absolutely  impossible  for  her 
to  draw  back  except  for  that  ignoble  reason: 
the  reinstatement  of  herself  in  her  own  esteem. 
She  could  not  possibly  receive  all  this  unde 
served  adulation  and  retain  her  self  esteem. 
It  was  all  more  than  she  had  counted  upon. 
She  had  opened  Pandora's  box  with  a  ven 
geance  and  the  stinging  things  swarmed  over 


280         THE  BUTTEKFLY  HOUSE 

her.  Wilbur  sat  on  the  verandah  with  her  and 
scarcely  took  his  eyes  of  adoring  wonder  from 
her  face.  She  had  sent  the  little  girls  to  bed 
early.  They  had  told  all  their  playmates  and 
talked  incessantly  with  childish  bragging. 
They  seemd  to  mock  her  as  with  peacock  eyes, 
symbolic  of  her  own  vanity. 

"You  sent  the  poor  little  things  to  bed  very 
early,"  Wilbur  said.  "They  did  so  enjoy  talk 
ing  over  their  mother 's  triumph.  It  is  the 
greatest  day  of  their  lives,  you  know,  Mar 
garet." 

"I  am  tired  of  it,"  Margaret  said  sharply, 
but  Wilbur's  look  of  worship  deepened. 

"You  are  so  modest,  sweetheart,"  he  said  and 
Margaret  writhed.  Poor  Wilbur  had  been 
reading  The  Poor  Lady  instead  of  his  beloved 
newspapers  and  now  and  then  he  quoted  a  pas 
sage  which  he  remembered,  with  astonishing  ac 
curacy. 

"Say,  darling,  you  are  a  marvel,"  he  would 
remark  after  every  quotation.  "Now,  how  in 
the  world  did  you  ever  manage  to  think  that 
up?  I  suppose  just  this  minute,  as  you  sit 
there  looking  so  sweet  in  your  white  dress,  just 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         281 

such  things  are  floating  through  your  brain, 
eht" 

"No,  they  are  not,"  replied  Margaret.  Oh, 
if  she  had  only  understood  the  horrible  depth 
of  a  lie ! 

"Suppose  Von  Rosen  is  making  up  to  little 
Annie  f"  said  Wilbur  presently. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  she  is  a  nice  little  thing,  sweet  tem 
pered,  and  pretty,  although  of  course  her  men 
tal  calibre  is  limited.  She  may  make  a  good 
wife,  though.  A  man  doesn't  expect  his  wife 
always  to  set  the  river  on  fire  as  you  have  done, 
sweetheart." 

Then  Wilbur  fished  from  his  pockets  a  lot 
of  samples.  "Thought  I  must  order  a  new 
suit,  to  live  up  to  my  wife,"  he  said.  "See 
which  you  prefer,  Margaret." 

"I  should  think  your  own  political  outlook 
would  make  the  new  suit  necessary,"  said  Mar 
garet  tartly. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Get  more  votes  if  you  look 
a  bit  shabby  from  the  sort  who  I  expect  may 
get  me  the  office,"  laughed  Wilbur.  "This 
new  suit  is  simply  to  enable  me  to  look  worthy, 


282         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

as  far  as  my  clothes  are  concerned,  of  my 
famous  wife.7' 

"I  think  you  have  already  clothes  enough," 
said  Margaret  coldly. 

Wilbur  looked  hurt.  " Doesn't  make  much 
difference  how  the  old  man  looks,  does  it, 
dear?"  said  he. 

"Let  me  see  the  samples,"  Margaret  re 
turned  with  an  effort.  There  were  depths  be 
yond  depths ;  there  were  bottomless  quicksands 
in  a  lie.  How  could  she  have  known? 

That  night  Wilbur  looked  into  his  wife's  bed 
room  at  midnight.  "  Awake  I"  he  asked  in  his 
monosyllabic  fashion. 

"Yes." 

"Say,  old  girl,  Von  Eosen  has  just  this  min 
ute  gone.  Guess  it's  a  match  fast  enough." 

"I  always  thought  it  would  be  Alice,"  re 
turned  Margaret  wearily.  Love  affairs  did 
seem  so  trivial  to  her  at  this  juncture. 

"Alice  Mendon  has  never  cared  a  snap  about 
getting  married  any  way,"  returned  Wilbur. 
"Some  women  are  built  that  way.  She  is." 

Margaret  did  not  inquire  how  he  knew.  If 
Wilbur  had  told  her  that  he  had  himself  asked 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         283 

Alice  in  marriage,  it  would  have  been  as  if  she 
had  not  heard.  All  such  things  seemed  very 
unimportant  to  her  in  the  awful  depths  of  her 
lie.  She  said  good-night  in  answer  to  Wilbur's 
and  again  fell  to  thinking.  There  was  no  way 
out,  absolutely  no  way.  She  must  live  and  die 
with  this  secret  self-knowledge  which  abased 
her,  gnawing  at  the  heart.  Wilbur  had  told 
her  that  he  believed  that  her  authorship  of  The 
Poor  Lady  might  be  the  turning  point  of  his 
election.  She  was  tongue-tied  in  a  horrible 
spiritual  sense.  She  was  disfigured  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  and  she  could  never  once  turn  away; 
her  eyes  from  her  disfigurement. 

The  light  from  Annie  Eustace's  window 
shone  in  her  room  for  two  hours  after  that. 
She  wondered  what  she  was  doing  and  guessed 
Annie  was  writing  a  new  novel  to  take  the  place 
of  the  one  of  which  she  had  robbed  her.  An 
acute  desire  which  was  like  a  pain  to  be  herself 
the  injured  instead  of  the  injurer  possessed  her. 
Oh,  what  would  it  mean  to  be  Annie  sitting 
there,  without  leisure  to  brood  over  her  new 
happiness,  working,  working,  into  the  morning 
hours  and  have  nothing  to  look  upon  except 


284         THE  BUTTEBFLY  HOUSE 

moral  and  physical  beauty  in  her  mental  look 
ing-glass.  She  envied  the  poor  girl,  who  was 
really  working  beyond  her  strength,  as  she  had 
never  envied  any  human  being.  The  envy 
stung  her,  and  she  could  not  sleep.  The  next 
morning  she  looked  ill  and  then  she  had  to  en 
dure  Wilbur's  solicitude. 

"Poor  girl,  you  overworked  writing  your 
splendid  book,"  he  said.  Then  he  suggested 
that  she  spend  a  month  at  an  expensive  sea 
shore  resort  and  another  horror  was  upon  Mar 
garet.  Wilbur,  she  well  knew,  could  not  afford 
to  send  her  to  such  a  place,  but  was  innocently, 
albeit  rather  shamefacedly,  assuming  that  she 
could  defray  her  own  expenses  from  the  reve 
nue  of  her  book.  He  would  never  call  her  to 
account  as  to  what  she  had  done  with  the  wealth 
which  he  supposed  her  to  be  reaping.  She  was 
well  aware  of  that,  but  he  would  naturally  won 
der  within  himself.  Any  man  would.  She 
said  that  she  was  quite  well,  that  she  hated  a 
big  hotel,  and  much  preferred  home  during  the 
hot  season,  but  she  heard  the  roar  of  these  new 
breakers.  How  could  she  have  dreamed  of  the 
lifelong  disturbance  which  a  lie"  could  cause? 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         285 

Night  after  night  she  saw  the  light  in  Annie's 
windows  and  she  knew  what  she  was  doing. 
She  knew  why  she  was  not  to  be  married  until 
next  winter.  That  book  had  to  be  written  first. 
Poor  Annie  could  not  enjoy  her  romance  to  the 
full  because  of  over-work.  The  girl  lost  flesh 
and  Margaret  knew  why.  Preparing  one's 
trousseau,  living  in  a  love  affair,  and  writing 
a  book,  are  rather  strenuous,  when  undertaken 
at  the  same  time. 

It  was  February  when  Annie  and  Von  Eosen 
were  married  and  the  wedding  was  very  quiet. 
Annie  had  over-worked,  but  her  book  was  pub 
lished,  and  was  out-selling  The  Poor  Lady.  It 
also  was  published  anonymously,  but  Margaret 
knew,  she  knew  even  from  the  reviews.  Then 
she  bought  the  book  and  read  it  and  was  con 
vinced.  The  book  was  really  an  important 
work.  The  writer  had  gone  far  beyond  her 
first  flight,  but  there  was  something  unmistak 
able  about  the  style  to  such  a  jealous  reader  as 
Margaret.  Annie  had  her  success  after  all. 
She  wore  her  laurels,  although  unseen  of  men, 
with  her  orange  blossoms.  Margaret  saw  in 
every  paper,  in  great  headlines,  the  notice  of 


286         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

the  great  seller.  The  best  novel  for  a  twelve 
month — The  Firm  Hand.  Wilbur  talked  much 
about  it.  He  had  his  election.  He  was  a  Sena 
tor,  and  was  quietly  proud  of  it,  but  nothing 
mattered  to  him  as  much  as  Margaret's  book. 
That  meant  more  than  his  own  success. 

"I  have  read  that  novel  they  are  talking  so 
much  about  and  it  cannot  compare  with  yours, " 
he  told  her.  "The  publishers  ought  to  push 
yours  a  little  more.  Do  you  think  I  ought  to 
look  in  on  them  and  have  a  little  heart-to-heart 
talk?" 

Margaret's  face  was  ghastly.  "Don't  do 
anything  of  the  sort,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  won't  if  you  don't  want  me  to, 
but—" 

"I  most  certainly  don't  want  you  to."  Then 
Margaret  never  had  a  day  of  peace.  She 
feared  lest  Wilbur,  who  seemed  nightly  more 
incensed  at  the  flaming  notices  of  The  Firm 
Hand  might,  in  spite  of  her  remonstrances,  go 
to  see  the  publishers,  and  would  they  keep  the 
secret  if  he  did? 

Margaret  continued  to  live  as  she  had  done 
before.  That  was  part  of  the  horror.  She 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         287 

dared  not  resign  from  the  Zenith  Club.  How 
ever,  she  came  in  time  to  get  a  sort  of  comfort 
from  it.  Meeting  all  those  members,  presiding 
over  the  meetings,  became  a  sort  of  secret  flag 
ellation,  which  served  as  a  counter  irritation, 
for  her  tormented  soul.  All  those  women 
thought  well  of  her.  They  admired  her.  The 
acute  torture  which  she  derived  from  her 
knowledge  of  herself,  as  compared  with  their 
opinion  of  her,  seemed  at  times  to  go  a  little 
way  toward  squaring  her  account  with  her  bet 
ter  self.  And  the  club  also  seemd  to  rouse 
within  her  a  keener  vitality  of  her  better  self. 
Especially  when  the  New  Year  came  and  Mrs. 
Slade  was  elected  president  in  her  stead.  Once, 
Margaret  would  have  been  incapable  of  accept 
ing  that  situation  so  gracefully.  She  gave  a 
reception  to  Mrs.  Slade  in  honour  of  her  elec 
tion,  and  that  night  had  a  little  return  of  her 
lost  peace.  Then  during  one  of  the  meetings, 
a  really  good  paper  was  read,  which  set  her 
thinking.  That  evening  she  played  dominoes 
with  Maida  and  Adelaide,  and  always  after  that 
a  game  followed  dinner.  The  mother  became 
intimate  with  her  children.  She  really  loved 


288         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

them  because  of  her  loss  of  love  for  herself, 
and  because  the  heart  must  hold  love.  She 
loved  her  husband  too,  but  he  realised  no  dif 
ference  because  he  had  loved  her.  That  cold 
ness  had  had  no  headway  against  such  doting 
worship.  But  the  children  realised. 

"  Mamma  is  so  much  better  since  she  wrote 
that  book  that  I  shall  be  glad  when  you  are  old 
enough  to  write  a  book  too,"  Adelaide  said 
once  to  Maida. 

But  always  Margaret  suffered  horribly,  al 
though  she  gave  no  sign.  She  took  care  of  her 
beauty.  She  was  more  particular  than  ever 
about  her  dress.  She  entertained,  she  accepted 
every  invitation,  and  they  multiplied  since  Wil 
bur  's  flight  in  politics  and  her  own  reputed 
authorship.  She  was  Spartan  in  her  courage, 
but  she  suffered,  because  she  saw  herself  as  she 
was  and  she  had  so  loved  herself.  It  was  not 
until  Annie  Eustace  was  married  that  she  ob 
tained  the  slightest  relief.  Then  she  ascer 
tained  that  the  friend  whom  she  had  robbed  of 
her  laurels  had  obtained  a  newer  and  greener 
crown  of  them.  She  went  to  the  wedding  and 
saw  on  a  table,  Annie's  new  book.  She  glanced 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         289 

at  it  and  she  knew  and  she  wondered  if  Von 
Rosen  knew.  He  did  not. 

Annie  waited  until  after  their  return  from 
their  short  wedding  journey  when  they  were 
settled  in  their  home.  Then  one  evening, 
seated  with  her  husband  before  the  fire  in  the 
study,  with  the  yellow  cat  in  her  lap,  and  the 
bull  terrier  on  the  rug,  his  white  skin  rosy  in 
the  firelight,  she  said : 

"Karl,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Von  Rosen  looked  lovingly  at  her.  "Well, 
Heart" 

"It  is  nothing,  only  you  must  not  tell,  for  the 
publishers  insist  upon  its  being  anonymous,  I 
e— wrote  Tlie  Firm  Hand." 

Von  Rosen  made  a  startled  exclamation  and 
looked  at  Annie  and  she  could  not  understand 
the  look. 

6 1  Are  you  displeased  f ' '  she  faltered.  ' '  Don  *t 
you  like  me  to  write?  I  will  never  neglect  you 
or  our  home  because  of  it.  Indeed  I  will  not." 

"Displeased,"  said  Von  Rosen.  He  got  up 
and  deliberately  knelt  before  her.  "I  am 
proud  that  you  are  my  wife,"  he  said,  "prouder 
than  I  am  of  anything  else  in  the  wor.ld." 


290         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"Please  get  up,  dear,"  said  Annie,  "but  I 
am  so  glad,  although  it  is  really  I  who  am 
proud,  because  I  have  you  for  my  husband.  I 
feel  all  covered  over  with  peacock's  eyes." 

"I  cannot  imagine  a  human  soul  less  like  a 
peacock,"  said  Von  Rosen.  He  put  his  arms 
around  her  as  he  knelt,  and  kissed  her,  and  the 
yellow  cat  gave  an  indignant  little  snarl  and 
jumped  down.  He  was  jealous. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Annie,  laughing.  "I 
thought  the  time  had  come  to  tell  you  and  I 
hoped  you  would  be  pleased.  It  is  lovely,  isn't 
it?  You  know  it  is  selling  wonderfully." 

"It  is  lovely,"  said  Von  Rosen.  "It  would 
have  been  lovely  anyway,  but  your  success  is  a 
mighty  sweet  morsel  for  me." 

"You  had  better  go  back  to  your  chair  and 
smoke  and  I  will  read  to  you,"  said  Annie. 

"Just  as  if  you  had  not  written  a  successful 
novel,"  said  Von  Rosen.  But  he  obeyed,  the 
more  readily  because  he  knew,  and  pride  and 
reverence  for  his  wife  fairly  dazed  him.  Von 
Rosen  had  been  more  acute  than  the  critics  and 
Annie  had  written  at  high  pressure,  and  one 
can  go  over  a  book  a  thousand  times  and  be 


THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE         291 

blind  to  things  which  should  be  seen.  She  had 
repeated  one  little  sentence  which  she  had  writ 
ten  in  The  Poor  Lady.  Von  Rosen  knew,  but 
he  never  told  her  that  he  knew.  He  bowed  be 
fore  her  great,  generous  silence  as  he  would 
have  bowed  before  a  shrine,  but  he  knew  that 
she  had  written  The  Poor  Lady,  and  had  al 
lowed  Margaret  Edes  to  claim  unquestioned  the 
honour  of  her  work. 

As  they  sat  there,  Annie's  Aunt  Susan  came 
in  and  sat  with  them.  She  talked  a  good  deal 
about  the  wedding  presents.  Wedding  pres 
ents  were  very  wonderful  to  her.  They  were 
still  spread  out,  most  of  them  on  tables  in  the 
parlour  because  all  Fairbridge  was  interested 
in  viewing  them.  After  a  while  Susan  went 
into  the  parlour  and  gloated  over  the  presents. 
When  she  came  back,  she  wore  a  slightly  dis 
gusted  expression. 

"You  have  beautiful  presents,"  said  she, 
"but  I  have  been  looking  all  around  and  the 
presents  are  not  all  on  those  tables,  are  they?" 

"No,"  said  Annie. 

Von  Rosen  laughed.  He  knew  what  was  com 
ing,  or  thought  that  he  did. 


292         THE  BUTTERFLY  HOUSE 

"I  see,"  said  Aunt  Susan,  "that  you  have 
forty-two  copies  of  Margaret  .Edes'  book,  The 
Poor  Lady,  and  I  have  always  thought  it  was 
a  very  silly  book,  and  you  can't  exchange  them 
for  every  single  one  is  autographed." 

It  was  quite  true.  Poor  Margaret  Edes  had 
autographed  the  forty-two.  She  had  not  even 
dreamed  of  the  incalculable  depths  of  a  lie. 


THE  END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAS  11 1933 

DEC   9   1936 
LIBRARY  USE 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


1 


YB 


.  I  .' 
I 


393797 

, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


